


to speak in tongues of glory (disarm, disarm)

by captainkilly



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Pacts, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Seer Gellert Grindelwald, Summer of 1899
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21538036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Gellert Grindelwald comes to Godric's Hollow in search of three things. He finds a fourth instead.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 48
Kudos: 126





	1. cloak

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a one-shot. It turns out there was a great deal more to say.
> 
> A massive thank-you goes out to the Grindeldore fandom on Tumblr and Discord for all the encouragement, inspiration, and friendship!

*****

This summer in England is a long, warm affair.

Gellert Grindelwald bemoans his insufficient wardrobe for the umpteenth time as he rolls his shirt’s sleeves up to just above his elbow. He slicks his hair back impatiently, causing half of it to tumble back into his face the second he bends down to spell his boots into shoes.

“Remind me to take you shopping the day after next.”

He smiles. “I can make do with a few spells for now, auntie,” he says, “but I would not be adverse to trying some English fashion.”

Bathilda Bagshot crosses her arms and looks him up and down critically at that. “I suppose you could do with less high collars,” she agrees as he unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt. “Transfigured or charmed clothes never do sit quite as right as the real thing, now do they?”

There’s some truth in that, he reflects as he shakes his legs experimentally. The fabric of his pants, though less warm now, glides and chafes against his skin in equal measure. Still, the stifling heat doesn’t allow him much of a choice.

“Why can’t we go shopping now?”

“I have some research to finish first.” Aunt Hilda raises an eyebrow imperiously at his soft sound of protest. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’m going to get you out of this house first.”

“To do what? There’s nothing to do here for miles and miles!”

Except his own research, of course, but it has only been two days since his arrival. He sighs. The last thing he wants is for Hilda to figure out that he isn’t just visiting her on a whim. There are social constructs to adhere to. Information to keep in the dark and in his suitcase, until such a time when hauling it out does not seem wholly suspicious.

Gellert categorises his entire life into truths and half-truths. Cloaks himself in it and shrouds his tongue in careful manipulations. It’s second nature, most of the time, though Aunt Hilda has lived so long that he thinks she can tell if he is too forceful with it. A woman who can stare down an entire convent of vampires and come out alive is a rather formidable opponent, after all.

“You could always go outside and have some fun.”

He scoffs. “I repeat: there’s nothing to do.”

“Hmm. I know someone who might disagree with that.” Hilda smiles at him. “You’ll like him. He’s your age. Clever, like you, and always up for an adventure.”

His mouth opens and closes. No sound escapes. She can’t be serious. She can’t be.. He takes a deep breath. Glares down at his aunt with equal measures of alarm and anger.

“I’m _not_ going to spend time with a Muggle!”

Aunt Hilda fixes him with a rather exasperated look. “Don’t be silly,” she remarks acidly, “you would never be able to fit in with one.”

“How hard can _that_ possibly be?” he grumbles.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, you’re quite unable to have any kind of conversation that does not involve magic.” This time, his aunt actually rolls her eyes. “Your Seer gift tumbles out of your mouth whenever one least expects it, too, and the last thing we need over here is the Muggles freaking out over being told the future. Historically, such things never ended well.”

He concedes quiet defeat at that. “I do my best to control that,” he says, still, because he can’t have Aunt Hilda think that he does any of it on purpose. Most days, it just slips away from him before he knows good and well what has happened. “Sometimes the vision’s just.. stronger. Like it’s all I see when I look at someone, and saying it makes it dissipate a little more.”

Hilda pats his shoulder gently. A hissing noise fills his ears at the contact. He fixes his eyes on the far wall instead of on her face. Blinks back the vision that threatens to curl itself into his line of sight again. He takes a deep breath. And another. _In, out,_ he reminds himself. _In through the nose, out through the mouth. Repeat. Repeat._ He chances a glance at her smiling face. The vision dissipates.

Sometimes, Aunt Hilda’s shadow is that of a giant snake.

“I really do wish you would stop researching Herpo the Foul,” he remarks airily. A little too airily, perhaps, because Hilda’s eyes narrow infinitesimally at him. He breathes in again. Time for damage control. “Honestly, Auntie, with all the things you know about magic, you could write a history about it instead. From Ancient Sumer to now, probably, because I don’t think there is anything you have not researched.”

“Flattery, again?” Hilda heaves a sigh, but she laughs and pulls him close in the next breath. “What am I to do with you, my amazing nephew? Come, let’s go see if I can ship you off into younger hands.”

“If it’s not a Muggle,” he asks, allowing himself to be led past the threshold and into the garden, “then who is it? I thought most wizards had left Godric’s Hollow by now.”

“Most have. Godric’s Hollow used to be steeped in magic, you know. You could hardly turn a corner without seeing a spell, not walk through gardens like these without seeing herbal masters at work.. It was different, as most places were.”

“What changed?”

“The Statute of Secrecy, mainly. We went into hiding. Pretended to be a part of the Muggle world, to a degree, though I don’t think many wizards are that successful at it.” Hilda snorts out a laugh when his face crinkles into a smile. “You don’t think so either, huh?”

“I’ve seen wizards in women’s dress,” he laughs, “and witches garbed in all the colours of the rainbow within a dark and dreary space.” He shakes his head at the memory of German taverns, Bulgarian harbours, Italian feasts. Rich opulence at war with downcast eyes. He’s seen it all over Europe. “We are not fit to blend in with Muggles.”

Godric’s Hollow still tastes like magic on his tongue, though. The air around Hilda’s garden constricts with scents of borage and thyme, lavender and honey, mugwort and belladonna. It’s so strong that he’s even seen Muggles stop to inhale the air and then shake their head at the cottage. Sometimes, he thinks, the Statute of Secrecy only works because people choose to look the other way.

Hilda leads him through the streets of Godric’s Hollow with a firm hand. _Don’t run away from this,_ her fingers drum on his wrist, _don’t you dare run again the way you always have._ He lets his legs carry him in her trail. One foot. The other foot. Focus. He doesn’t see the faces of the Muggles that nod in greeting. Tries not to peer too closely at the children that almost bowl him over. _An accident. Blood, so much of it. Split lips and haunted eyes._ He shakes his head and focuses on Aunt Hilda’s hand.

Crowds are still a problem.

He hides behind shields of his own making, crude but effective. Silver threads spark in his line of vision as Hilda leads him through the town square. He branches some into runes, others into arithmantic equations, and yet again others into wings and fire. _Notice me not, obscure me,_ he breathes into them, _shield me and keep me._ The marks on his collarbones sting with malice.

_Breathe, breathe. In with one breath, out with the next. This is how it goes. Breathe._

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs as she leads him out of the village. “I think so.”

Aunt Hilda doesn’t look convinced. Maybe it’s because he stumbles on his last step away from the streets of Godric’s Hollow. Maybe it’s because he refuses to look at her for longer than seconds at a time. Her brow furrows in the moment he meets her gaze. Her hand tightens around his wrist.

“I’m okay,” he says, voice stronger now. The pressure on his wrist decreases as he releases his breath. He casts around for anything to say that will take her attention away from his ragged breath. Finds it in the next moment. “Where is this person, then?”

Aunt Hilda gestures at the hill that stretches out before them. The grass that covers it looks parched, yellowed and patchy. There is no one to tend to it and nurse it back to health. He doesn’t think even a few well-placed Aguamentis will change any of it, considering the fact that the sun beats down upon the hill mercilessly. He follows the path of warm destruction upward, eyes roaming over the massive tree that stands lonely at its very top.

At the foot of the tree, red and gold flash in the light of the sun. He can barely make out a shape.

“Up there?” he questions.

Hilda nods. Lets go of him entirely.

He pauses at the implications of that.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“I trust you’re old enough to introduce yourself without looking like a total idiot.” Aunt Hilda looks him up and down. Brushes a stray hair off his shirt. “At least Durmstrang was able to instill some manners into the Grindelwald lineage, even when it utterly failed at teaching its scion the value of when to shut his damn mouth.”

“I wasn’t expelled for running my mouth,” he says.

“Please.” Hilda’s gaze is all-knowing, for a moment, and he quails at the sight of her darkened irises. “How would they have known about the rituals, the blood, the rest of it, if not because you bragged to the wrong people and didn’t elect to hide your eyes?”

He shrugs. “The Charms teacher is a Legilimens.”

“And you have been Occluding since you were old enough to know what your visions meant.” She snaps the words out, truth stinging in their simplicity. “You could have ripped that Charms teacher to shreds if they’d tried to invade your head. Most don’t survive a trip into a Seer’s brain, after all.”

“Occlumency doesn’t always work,” he snaps back. _A cold room. Trembling hands. His cat’s heartbeat, slowing and stopping._ _The_ _silver_ _threads dissipating before he can grab hold of them._ He halts Hilda’s sharp intake of breath with a glance. “Stop prying about it. It’s the past.”

She hums noncommittally at that. “All right,” she says. Her eyes turn lighter as she looks at the hill. “Go up there, Gellert. Before I change my mind.”

Aunt Hilda’s threats are never empty. He knows that much, even when some things about her do surprise him from time to time.

He chooses to walk uphill.

*****

**  
** Gellert is almost surprised to find that Aunt Hilda wasn’t altogether lying.

There _is_ a boy about his age beneath the tree. The red and gold that glinted in the sun even from so far away is threaded through his hair, giving the impression of the boy’s head being shrouded in fire. His long legs are sprawled out haphazardly, while his hands hold a book. Gellert tilts his head to read the title.

“The Mill on the..?” he questions out loud, not recognizing it.

“Floss,” responds the boy, after a moment. He doesn’t look at Gellert. “The main character’s quite good, but I’m undecided about the rest of it.”

“I’m not going to read it until you decide, then,” he replies. Fire still swirls around the boy’s hair. A song lilts as the boy turns the page. He shakes his head. Remembers Hilda’s trust in his ability to ferry a proper introduction. The song fades. “My name is Gellert Grindelwald. What’s yours?”

“I’m not interested,” the boy says. His eyes still do not stray from his book. “Whatever it is, I will have no part of it.”

Well. _Huh_.

Gellert raises an eyebrow at that. “Aunt Hilda said you’d be fun,” he remarks, and his voice is laden with _don’t ignore me_ , “but she didn’t say you’d be _rude_.”

The boy finally deigns to raise his head. The book tumbles to his lap, all but forgotten, as he squints up at Gellert. “Hilda? Surely.. not Bathilda Bagshot?” comes the question. “You’re her nephew?”

Gellert inclines his head. He would say more, distinguish between nephew and great-nephew for one, except that the boy’s eyes now meet his own and he is.. _Drowning, drowning, an ocean between him and the world, dark depths pulling pulling pulling..A tug behind his navel and he’s home, song lilting in his ears, magic dancing across his fingertips.._

He blinks. The boy’s blue eyes twinkle maddeningly.

“I’m Albus Dumbledore,” the boy says, then, in a way that makes Gellert feel like he has passed some kind of unwritten test. “I’m sorry about dismissing you like that.” He doesn’t sound contrite about it in the slightest, which startles a laugh out of Gellert. “People have been coming up to me all throughout the week, wanting something..”

“That must be tiresome,” agrees Gellert readily. He peers down at the boy. _Water at his feet, cold and unforgiving._ He swallows the tide that threatens to engulf him whole. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Albus.”

Albus wrinkles his nose. “Where on earth are you _from_?” The boy’s laugh is far more careful and controlled than his own, but his teeth glitter in the sunlight and his eyes crinkle in a way that has Gellert smiling back at him all the same. “Nobody I know speaks like that.”

“Nobody you know comes from a wholly different country, probably.” He’s going out on a limb, here, but surely a boy born and raised in Godric’s Hollow hasn’t seen too much of the world. “I was born in Austria.”

“Really? What’s it like?”

“Cold, sometimes,” he hums, assured that his impression of Albus was correct, “and the air is much thinner than here.” He sinks down until he is seated on the grass in front of Albus. “It doesn’t get as hot as this up in the mountains. Aunt Hilda’s going to allow me to purchase some English clothes soon. I’m Transfiguring the lot of what I have now, but they still chafe a bit.”

Albus’ eyes practically light up at the mention of Transfiguration. “They shouldn’t chafe if you focus on making them smoother than silk,” the boy says, hand straying toward his pocket, “but they look all right to me. Sometimes, it works better to alter the Transfiguration with an Ease charm.”

“But if I use an Ease charm, then the silk aspect of the Transfiguration is lost unless the silk is built into the Ease charm.” Gellert grins as Albus blinks in surprise. “I did study this, you know, but it’s a great deal more finicky than I want it to be. Don’t have the patience for it.”

“I could..”

Gellert glances around. The hill allows a nice overview of Godric’s Hollow and the fields that stretch out into the surrounding forest. There is nobody around for miles, or so it seems, and he has the distinct impression that Muggles might not be too keen on this hill to begin with. There is magic beneath the dirt, thrumming and coiling, threatening to shoot up the tree Albus leans against.

He smiles.

“Be my guest?” he offers.

The spell is non-verbal, but Albus’ brow furrows in concentration as he sweeps a dark wand out of his pocket and swirls it over Gellert’s legs. The fabric of his trousers grows exceedingly cool to the touch, wrinkles smooth themselves out with a little shake, the faded colour darkens to almost mirror its original shade.

“I can’t get it better than that, either,” says the wizard, once he is done. “They’ve been spelled before, haven’t they?”

Gellert moves his legs experimentally, stretching them out until they are almost on Albus’ lap. “They have,” he admits. “Durmstrang has combat magic classes and the Potions lessons are always such a mess, too.”

Albus’ eyebrows shoot upward at the mention of Durmstrang.

“Let me guess, you went to Hogwarts and heard a million horror stories about us?” challenges Gellert, taking care to keep his drawl lazy instead of offended. “I’m shocked, really, I am. What’s your House?”

“Gryffindor,” says Albus, and there’s a defensive note in his voice that Gellert really does not like or care for. “I actually have not heard that much about Durmstrang, though. Most people just mention the Dark Arts and nothing else about it.”

“Where dwell the brave at heart?” checks Gellert, satisfied to see Albus’ cheeks turn a rosy colour as the boy nods assent. He smirks. “I always thought I would make an excellent Hufflepuff, to tell you the truth.”

“You absolutely would not!”

“I’m loyal to those who’ve earned it.” He shrugs. “I work hard, too. It’d be no trouble.”

Albus observes him warily. “I have a feeling you would eat that House alive, if you went to Hogwarts,” he replies. “Loyalty to those who earn it sounds decidedly Slytherin, anyway.”

“Bah, no, that is far too conspicuous.” Gellert wrinkles his nose. He has heard too many stories about Slytherin House, twisted and mired in prejudice and reverence alike. He winks conspiratorially. “When I take over the world, I want people to say they never truly saw it coming. It’s far more fun that way.”

The admission startles a quick laugh out of Albus. Gellert is only half-joking, truly, but seeing the other wizard’s eyes light up is something that makes him grateful for Aunt Hilda’s interference in his life. There is something altogether heavy about Albus Dumbledore that is steeped in water and ruin alike. He tastes ash on his tongue as the boy’s smile turns thoughtful a little too quickly.

“Why are you in Godric’s Hollow?”

“Holiday.” He’s quick to reply. A little too quick, if Albus’ slightly narrowed eyes are anything to go by. No matter. He knows how to spin attention away from his plans. “My family couldn’t really stand the sight of me after I’d gotten myself expelled. They shipped me off to Europe and finally to Aunt Hilda.”

“Why were you expelled from _Durmstrang_?”

“So many questions,” he laughs, gentle admonishment colouring his words. “Durmstrang, unlike most magic schools, welcomes magic experiments. I probably wouldn’t have lasted a whole year at Hogwarts, yeah, based on that? But I don’t think Durmstrang really meant for anyone to turn their wand on themselves.” He smirks as Albus’ eyes grow wide. “The Dark Arts, as they teach them, are all about using others. True Dark Arts, as you undoubtedly know, are about self-discovery. I chose the latter.”

Albus’ silence is unnerving. The twinkle in his eyes does not dissipate, which Gellert had almost expected it would. There is something in his gaze that makes it hard to look away. His stomach coils and uncoils at the knowledge that Albus is looking into his dark-and-light eyes, meeting his entirely unnatural gaze, and choosing not to look away.

The trickle of magic at the nape of his neck is so subtle that Gellert almost misses it.

“Stop,” he forces out. His hands grasp and tear at the grass beneath him. “You don’t want to be in my head.”

Albus blinks. “Sorry. Force of habit.” He doesn’t sound too sorry, even though his cheeks flush a brighter red. “I’ve never had anyone notice before.”

“You’ve always been able to do it?” Gellert’s voice is sharper than he means it to be, but he knows an apology that’s not really an apology at all can only be born of one thing. It’s hard to apologize for your nature. For something you were born into. “The Legilimency?”

“I suppose. It grew stronger when I learned Occlumency, though. I’d rather expected–“ _hoped,_ Gellert’s mind supplies – “that it would diminish in strength instead of grow.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Gellert’s mouth quirks into a smile at Albus’ obvious discomfort. The boy refuses to meet his eyes now. He is adamant about looking to the sky, to the leaves and branches that stretch out far above them. His cheeks are fire that gleams brighter than his hair. The slight pressure at the back of Gellert’s neck has dissipated, but left the patch of skin colder than the rest of him.

“You can’t always control it, hm?” he asks. Hopes. Prays. “I know what that’s like.”

“Are you a Legilimens, too?”

Gellert shakes his head. “A Seer,” he confesses. If he is to be friends with this boy, as Aunt Hilda suspected he would be, then it does no good to hide himself. “Surely you guessed it. My eyes aren’t exactly.. inconspicuous.”

Albus scrambles to his knees. Leans forward, forward, forward, until their noses are almost touching. He is like the sea, bursting forth in a wave of motion. If he loses his balance, he will crash and wash over Gellert like the coming tide. He smiles at Albus all the same. Invites him in with gestures, coaxing the tide home home _home_. Merriment dances in his belly before landing on his fingertips. Sparks of light curl in the grass beneath him.

There is song in the air around them. It waxes and wanes with the light of Albus’ eyes, tips into crescendo when he smiles, fades on the moments his heartbeat stutters in his chest.

_Oh, Aunt Hilda,_ he thinks, fingers tapping out the beat of his own pulse, _I do like him very much._

“I’ve never met an actual Seer before.”

“I’m not a fairytale,” he warns, catching the wonder in Albus’ voice. “Most people don’t like what they find.”

He watches as Albus’ jaw sets into something akin to haughty stubbornness. He’s not sure why the other wizard isn’t already recoiling. The Sight’s mark on him is not easily turned aside or ignored. It is grotesque, really, the way one eye darkens and the other brightens, the way he sees all hidden things. _Cover them_ _up_ _, boy,_ snarls a distant voice, _before the Devil finds you and swallows you into the depths of hell._

“I like you just fine,” interrupts Albus. “You’re interesting.”

He tips his head back and laughs. Of course he is.

A fire kindles in his belly as he looks at Albus again.

“So are you.”

*****

The tide is red. Thick, near-black tendrils of it wedge themselves between him and the sand. They interweave with his toes, as if they are trying to lock onto him and pull him under. He wiggles his toes expertly and watches the red shift into the oranges and browns of autumn. The sand is colder now. His face wet with rain.

Gellert Grindelwald raises his eyes to meet a stormy sky. He blinks once. Twice.

“Come on! What are you waiting for?”

The voice, words fast with impatience, jolts him awake. He blinks again. Winces as the sun’s rays hit his eyes fully. Even as he looks away, he can see white hot spots curl and unfurl in his vision in response to its scorching heat.

Beneath his feet, the red appears anew.

“Just taking in the view!” he calls to the water, forcing a quick smile to flash across his face. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this place sooner!”

“I have to keep _some_ things secret. You’d never hang out with me otherwise!”

He shakes his head resolutely at that. Lifts his gaze from the murky red at his feet to the fiery red of Albus Dumbledore’s hair. “That’s what you think,” he says, making sure his voice carries over Al splashing around in the water. His smile is more genuine this time. “Who else would I spend time with, hm? The non-magicals?”

“I’d pay to see that,” laughs Al.

He shudders theatrically in response. Albus is full of little spaces like this, of which the Muggles are left blissfully unaware. He smirks as he detects the ripple of a Notice-Me-Not flit across the water. Shrugs out of his own shirt and wades into the pond.

Albus, already immersed in it, has gone perfectly still. His darkened eyes do not leave Gellert, but trace certain parts of him with a light frown marring his features. Gellert rolls his shoulders back and treads closer to Albus.

“Got anything you want to say to me?” he challenges in a soft voice.

Albus seems to shake himself. “Are those permanent?” he asks, voice equally soft, fingers stretching out toward the markings on Gellert’s skin. “They look complicated.”

He steps close enough for Al to touch his collarbones, his shoulders, his upper arms. The other wizard’s hands skim over the silver and blue patterns etched into Gellert almost reverently. He shivers at the touch. In time, he knows, he will have more of these. They will rise to his skin as he wields more power, spurred on by magic long lost to time, and he knows not the path they will take.

For one like him, the not-knowing is a gift.

“They are here to stay,” he confirms. “Some are tied into my magic.”

“That’s dangerous.” Albus sucks in a breath. Bites his lip. Meets his eyes moments later. “You might be the strangest wizard I’ve ever met.”

He smiles in a way that shows entirely too much teeth. Draws a deep breath into his lungs and plunges himself underwater. Al, bless him, is already trying to edge away from him as fast as he can paddle.

Albus is entirely too slow.

He grabs Al’s waist and pulls him down under the water with him. The pond is luminous with sunlight. The water’s pressure leaves a dull roar in his ears. He releases Albus after only a moment. Comes back up for air with a smile still on his face.

Albus is already spluttering for breath. Water splashes into Gellert’s face as Albus slaps the water between them. The other wizard grins at him.

“Prat,” says Albus warmly.

Heat coils in his belly as he grins back. He hits the water hard with a flat hand. Tips his head back in laughter as Al gasps with all the indignance he can muster.

Albus’ hands yank him under. The water closes in around him before he can draw breath. The roar in his ears is louder now. If he listens, truly listens, he is certain he will be able to hear battle cries and screams amid the roar.

He comes up for air the moment Al lets him go.

“Ass,” he says, smiling.

_You are too old for children’s games,_ admonishes his father’s voice as he splashes more water at Al.

“This means war, you know,” says Albus, sizing Gellert up. “You’d better start swimming.”

“You’d better start learning to breathe underwater,” he shoots back. Snarls a _shut the fuck up_ at his father’s voice in his head. “You are mine, Albus Dumbledore.”

“Catch me first!”

He dives after Albus the second Al’s red hair disappears under the water. Curses Al’s long legs, which seem to be made for swimming, as he sees Albus’ slender form gain some distance from him. This won’t do. This won’t do at all.

It does not occur to him to play fair. Magic swarms toward him. Sunlight streaks through his fingers. Down here, he feels invincible.

Albus has risen back to the surface some feet away.

He stretches out a hand. Tilts his head.

“Cheat,” announces Albus, seconds later, splashing around wildly as Gellert’s magic wraps around him. “I didn’t say you could do that!”

“You didn’t say I couldn’t, either,” he points out archly. Crooks his finger and pulls the cords of magic tighter. Albus glares at him as the water guides him back to Gellert. “No hard feelings?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you’ll answer a question of mine or not.”

“Shoot.”

Albus shakes loose from Gellert’s magic rather effortlessly. His gaze dips downward to Gellert’s chest.

“That same mark is on the Peverell headstone.”

“It is,” he affirms.

“You were in the graveyard earlier, seated on that exact headstone.”

“It’s quiet there. I can actually hear myself think.”

Albus shakes his head. Droplets of water splash into Gellert’s face.

“I think that’s bullshit,” says the red-haired wizard. Gellert’s mouth tastes like blood. “You’re looking for something that’s got to do with that family. With that symbol that’s etched into your skin.” He shivers as Albus’ finger lazily trails down the straight line on his chest. “There’s a story there.”

He appraises Albus only a moment. “Ask me,” he says.

“What’s the story?”

“You know the story.”

“No, I don’t.”

“The Tale of the Three Brothers?” he replies, arching a brow. “Surely you’ve heard of it..”

Albus laughs. “It’s a children’s fairytale, Gell!”

“It’s real. Too many stories match up. Too many sources support each other.” His voice dips into lower tones now, almost conspiratorial in nature. “The Wand is real, at least, and there are too many almost-stories about the Cloak. The Stone’s the more elusive, but if the first two are real..”

“Are there only three?”

“What more is there?”

“The Wand is fire, the Cloak air, the Stone water..?”

“Water?”

Albus shrugs. “Water invokes feeling, the Stone brings forth the dead.. They could be related, right?”

“Possibly,” he allows. Smiles at Albus rather fondly. “I knew I was right to tell you.”

“You’re missing earth,” says the wizard, a fierce blush creeping across his cheeks. “Those three without earth will be unstable.”

He shrugs at Albus. The sun’s rays crown the wizard’s head with a fiery halo. Red is the water, red are the markings on his wrists. He shakes his head. _Gold his magic, gold his ring. Silver your magic, silver your cloak._

_Red, red, the_ _shared_ _blood that encases the wand._

“I’ll show you all I’ve got on my research,” he decides in that moment. The red wraps tighter around Albus at the promise. The scent of earth invades his nostrils. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Albus decides to turn away. “I want to find them and unite them.”

“There can only be one Master of Death, yeah?” says Albus, brow furrowed as if he Is attempting to recall the fairytale itself. “Why would you share your research? Aren’t you worried I’ll take the Hallows for myself?”

He is the one to laugh, now. “Oh, Albus,” he says, voice tinged with the dark of Knowing, “I will never unite them without you.”

He watches the water around them turn deepest, darkest red.


	2. stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to you! I hope you will enjoy this chapter as much as the first.

*****

At first, he doesn’t think Albus is in the barn. It’s almost too quiet, eerie under the light of a full moon. There is no wind that moves through the trees, no sound except his own footsteps, and Gellert shivers for a moment as he stands still in the doorway. His eyes are almost used to the dark now, but the inside of the barn is darker than the shadows he encountered before.

“Al?” he whispers, hand straying to his pocket. He brushes the blackthorn wand carefully. “Al? Are you here?”

He steps inside the barn. Blinks to adjust himself to the dark. Shards of moonlight pierce through the cracks of blackened shadows, but he pays them no heed. Staring at the light too long is not going to help you deal with the absence of it. He should know. He has been blind before.

_Stumbling along in the dark, cloth bound over his eyes, as though he is playing a game he is entirely too old for. Memorizing footsteps, cracks in the tiles, threads of magic weaving from one space to the next._

He shakes his head. Breathes. Focuses.

Albus is bright, so bright, against the black that soaks up the space within the barn. Gold and silver threads spark to life before Gellert’s eyes. They swirl more than is their custom, stretch out beyond Albus’ body in the far corner, test all the corners and edges of the barn before settling along its walls.

“Al?”

He is careful in his approach. Albus’ magic has anchored itself into the barn by now. Upsetting him could bring it crashing down around them.

He doesn’t want to do anything that upsets Albus.

A sniffle greets his ears as he steps closer to where Albus is seated. The other wizard is hunched in on himself. His arms around his knees, his head bowed, his fingers clenched into fists. There is despair in his voice, which breaks and lilts in equal measure as sobs wreck his frame.

“Al,” he breathes, caution already forgotten, “what’s the matter?”

The sobs don’t vanish. The noisy inhales don’t, either, and there’s a hitch in his breath that sounds quite close to hysteria.

Gellert closes his eyes. Counts to ten.

“You’re here,” he says, “in the barn you discovered when you needed an escape.” He knows the story intimately by now. Albus, like him, is very prone to hiding. “Your name is Albus Dumbledore. Please don’t let me say your full name, because I will mangle it beyond all recognition again.” He chuckles in self-deprecation. “You’re a Gryffindor, you’re a wizard, and you’re my friend.”

“I know who I am,” breathes Albus, then, and Gellert lets out a breath of relief at the admission.

“That’s something, at least,” he notes conversationally. “Mind telling me the rest?”

Albus eyes him briefly. His gaze is that of a stranger.

His words are, too.

“I hate them.”

Gellert blinks. Wonders if he’s heard it right, between the sob and the way Albus’ hand noisily wipes at his nose. Hatred sounds utterly foreign when it rolls off of Albus’ tongue. It is a strange language, mixed with far more vitriol and accented woe than Gellert thinks Albus has got any right to possess, and the sound of it lingers in the cramped space.

Albus’ eyes glitter in the moonlight as he raises his head. Gellert swallows all of his concerns as he looks at his tear-streaked face, the set of his mouth, the absence of light in his gaze.

“Who?” he asks instead, taking care to control the tremor that threatens the stability of his voice. He shifts from one foot to the other. “Who do you hate?”

Albus’ mouth curves downward. “Them,” he says. Gestures to the outside world as if it has personally offended him. Bites his lip as if that’s enough to stop the tears from falling. “The Muggles.”

“O.. kay,” he says. Stupidly, numbly, slowly. Shakes his head. Remembers just in time to sit down next to Albus before his legs give out. He tries to organize his thoughts. Thinks he fails miserably, but tries all the same. “May I inquire as to why?”

Albus snorts derisively. “Why on earth would I not?”

_Because,_ he wants to say, _because you’re Albus._ He chances a glance at Albus, whose eyes are fixed on the pile of hay in front of them. _Because I’m the one who hates, and you are the one who doesn’t._

Out loud, he makes a non-committal noise instead.

“They..” Albus’ voice cracks. He wipes his cheeks. Exhales. “My sister.. You know she’s not quite right, yeah? That she hasn’t gone to Hogwarts or anything?”

“Yeah,” he affirms. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach, swirling and clawing at his insides. “You said she isn’t well.”

“She wasn’t born like that. She was like us, at first. Magic, powerful, happy.”

Gellert tilts his head back until it hits the wall behind them. He bends his knees until he is small in the space next to Albus. He doesn’t want to hear this. Doesn’t want to hear what makes Albus’ voice sound like _that_ – hollow, cracked, broken.

This isn’t about what _he_ wants, though, and so he keeps his silence.

“She was out in the garden one day. Ariana, she.. she didn’t care about secrecy. Think she was too young to understand not everyone had magic. You know how it is.”

“Yeah. Took me a while, too,” snorts Gellert. _Not everyone can make things float, and you’d do well to remember it!_ He flinches at the memory. “Kids are like that.”

“They are. Ariana, too. She was playing outside. Using magic, of course.” The corner of Albus’ mouth quirks. His gaze is even further away. “Some Muggle kids saw her. They thought it was a trick. Tried to get her to do it again. She couldn’t replicate it.”

“Accidental magic is like that,” nods Gellert carefully. “Some experimental magic is, too. Hard to control. Harder, still, to replicate.”

“The kids, they.. I don’t know what happened, exactly. I wasn’t there.” Albus sighs. His head tilts back until it hits the wall. “They hurt her, though. They did things.. My f-father, he.. H-he tracked them down, after. Made _them_ hurt. We didn’t even know if she was going to live.” His voice is bitter, biting at the edges, and Gellert’s insides protest at the sound. “And when she did, she was just.. different.”

“Lasting damage?”

“She’s got these episodes. Huge, accidental bursts of magic powerful enough to level the house.” Albus rakes his hand through his hair. Scoffs. “I keep thinking, I’m going to find a solution. If I just learn.. if I know enough.. I can fix it? But all I do is shield, and repair, and try and calm her down. I’m not even good at that. Need Abe to actually step in and talk to her.”

Gellert nods slowly. His hand comes to rest on the inside of Albus’ wrist. His head drops onto Albus’ shoulder a moment later, gently nudging and shifting until Albus uncoils. Albus’ breath is warm on his forehead. Warmer still is the hand that finds his own, fingers entangling briefly with his and disappearing just as quickly again. Comfort is not a lasting thing.

“What happened tonight?” he presses. Nudges Albus with his arm. “Is everyone okay?”

Black spots appear at the edges of his vision. Tendrils of smoke follow soon after. Albus’ affirmation drowns in the sudden rush of pounding hearts and heavy footfalls. He doesn’t hear the rest of it.

_a girl is screaming, screaming, screaming high-pitches warbles of nothing higher-pitched than the young man’s screams writhing writhing on the earth falling stumbling failing screaming pleading no no no_

He sits upright and scoots away from Albus as if burned.

_burn burn burn it’s burning it’s screaming it’s smoke and shadows in the air it bursts it comes for them it comes it hurts please_

“No, no,” he mutters, shadows encroaching on his vision, the scent of the air shifting into rain and blood, “not now please not now please.”

Albus reaches for him and the sun bursts through the moon.

Gellert collapses.

_It’s blacker than he’s ever seen. Darkness falls over sunlight as though the night suddenly remembered to usurp the midday. Smoke is in his lungs, tendrils of it swarm his vision, he is wandless against the tide. The tide turns and shifts and lunges lunges lunges and there’s the light to meet it there is light there is the tide the sea the ocean_

_he’s drowning drowning screaming_

_there is blackness in the sea, blackness deep below, twisting and turning and changing and spewing and rolling and usurping_

_please don’t let – please don’t – screaming crying dead dead_

_the sea is cold and so is the sun the sea is cold and the sun is gone_

_blue eyes stare up at the blue sky_

_sightless wordless wandless_

_the sea is cold so cold so cold_

_gasping gasping gasping_

_breathe_

_breathe_

“Gell! Gellert!”

He coughs up water. His lungs are flooded with the dark, heaving and rolling and urging, and he is sick with it. Water turns to smoke, water turns to ash, water turns to blood. He spews and spews and Albus’ hands are in his hair and on his forehead while his hands curl and scrape fistfuls of bottomless anguish all over the golden straw. He spews until his stomach stops rolling, until his breath is no longer a gasp between the ebb and flow, until Albus’ touch stops burning.

“Merlin, Gell,” breathes Albus in his ear, eyes undoubtedly straying over the damage Gellert does to the world without meaning to. He hunches in on himself as the wizard’s hand tightens in his hair. “What happened?”

He coughs again. Scrapes his throat. “Your sister,” he says, wildly, unthinkingly, _knowingly_ , “her magic.. It could kill you. It’s going to – Al, it’s going –!“

“Shh. Shh. No, it’s not.”

“It is,” he argues, voice hoarse, eyes wild, “I Saw.. Al, _please_!”

“A vision?”

“Y-yeah.” He doesn’t want to look at Albus. His eyes will be alive now, paler blue in the light of the moon. They will spark and shine and bend him until he feels close to breaking. He can’t let.. He shakes his head. Decides. “We will not let this happen. We’ll find a way to help your sister and heal her.”

“Well,” says Albus, and Gellert can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying because his voice is scratchy and strange and foreign all at once, “we will add changing fate to our growing list of plans, then.”

Visions aren’t fate, not really, but they might as well be. Believing in them too little is to tempt them into coming to pass, almost as if fate elects to spite those who do not heed its warnings. Believing in them too much is almost like being part of the weaves and threads that create its tapestry of design.

If there is a balance between the two, Gellert thinks, it’s probably found in something that burns fate’s house down and scatters its ashes into the void of the universe.

Not entirely unthinkable.

He chuckles, laughs, coughs out amusement. “Might as well,” he agrees out loud. Wipes his mouth. Leans into Albus’ lighter touch. There is a tremor in his fingers he can’t quite hide. “I won’t let this kill you.”

Albus makes a sound in the back of his throat that sends shivers down Gellert’s spine. He knows that Al doesn’t set much stock in fate and visions and all the things you can learn from looking into mirrors. He’s far too practical for it, too focused on turning teacups into more useful things and learning how to turn straw into spun gold. Albus doesn’t like things to stay how they are. Doesn’t like to be powerless against the endless weave and turn of the wheel.

Yet, if he closes his eyes right now, he can almost believe that Albus believes him.

He groans and coughs up a final tendril of smoke. He huddles in on himself, stomach cramping, throat burning, and tries to fight off the looming nausea. _In breath, out breath, in breath, out breath,_ he thinks, a fight born of desperation, _repeat repeat repeat._

“Are they always like that? Your visions?” Albus, bless him, actually sounds concerned. “I thought Seers just said some predictions, read tea leaves, that sort of thing..”

His mouth quirks in amusement. “Those who give prophecy, maybe. They are reliable only in those rare moments of prediction, where their voices change and their eyes do not see the world before them. For the rest of the time, I suppose they really do read tea leaves.” He chuckles at it, but cannot stop his voice from sounding hollow. He exhales as his stomach seems to surrender its many protests. “I never gave prophecy, as far as I know. My Sight is just my constant, unshakable companion. But, no, they’re not always like that. Most of the time it’s just.. shadows on the wall, slivers of light, the vision as an overlay to reality? Hard to explain. Harder to control.”

“And if they _are_ like this?”

“They’re almost a certainty, then.” His eyes do meet Albus’, now. Albus’ brow is furrowed, with the blues of his eyes almost as dark as the night sky itself. “Almost, but not quite. If it was certain, I don’t think I’d See it at all.”

“Because then there’d be no point in knowing it,” replies Albus. He sounds like he is measuring all the words he speaks. Like he weighs them, before he releases them. “How do you propose going about changing it?”

He hisses at that. Bats away Albus’ hand when the wizard reaches for him. “I don’t want your fucking academia,” he snarls, voice biting like the winds of winter. “You’re already analyzing it, coming at it from all the angles you know work for every other problem. The Sight doesn’t work that way, Al.” He gestures at the physical remnants of his vision with distaste. His lips curl. “The Sight works like _that_. It takes, and it takes, and it changes, and it _hurts_. I need to sort the mess out before I can even think about changing any of it.”

“Let me help.”

“Maybe. You’ve got enough going on.” He dismisses it with a shrug. _Traitor, traitor,_ his belly screams, _you never used to care like this before._ “Don’t worry about it. I’m more interested in what you propose to do about the Muggles?”

Albus fidgets. His gaze drops down to the remnants of the vision, too. His lips don’t curl. His hands are steady. “Nothing,” he says airily. _Too_ airily. “Raising a wand against them is a one-way ticket to Azkaban. My father could tell you all about that.” A laugh, broken, twisted, jabs out into the conversation. “There is nothing I can do.”

“Nothing you can do _alone_ ,” amends Gellert, almost unthinkingly. His hand finds Albus’. He squeezes it none-too-gently. “But you are not alone, now, are you?”

Albus’ gaze is terrible as he raises his head. His chin lifts as if he means to bend the world to his will. His words, soft, gentle, run rivulets of power down Gellert’s spine.

“Neither are you.”

*****

“Not like that! It’s a gentler spell than that, it doesn’t deserve you stabbing at the air like you’re going to slash it in half.. It won’t come if you do.”

Gellert rolls his eyes. They have been doing this for the better part of five hours now. Albus talking himself hoarse, perfecting wand movements, talking about the theory of the spell as though Gellert has any foggy idea as to what is used in its construction. He, on his part, had started snarling midway through the second hour and had decidedly turned to vitriol in the fourth when all his stupid, treacherous wand wanted was to produce a silver mist.

The fact that Al’s eyes had lit up at the sight of it had made the mist burn brighter, and made him even less likely to truly master it.

“It’s a fucking asinine spell,” he mutters, loud enough for Albus to hear. “Aside from the wand movement – you can’t point at something like that without stabbing the air, Al, you just _can’t_ – there is the whole foundation of the spell to consider. The books mention it being born of absolute perfect happiness, you say I need to use my fondest memory,” he sneers while exhaling a huffy breath, “and I don’t fucking know which way is up or down except that the books are _probably_ wrong because having an orgasm when a Dementor’s chasing you is just really fucking inconvenient and – why are you _laughing_?”

Albus’ shoulders shake with silent, mirth-filled laughter. There are actual tears gathering in the other wizard’s eyes, making them dance and twinkle even more merrily than usual, and the sounds that finally do escape his throat are raw amusement personified. He’s practically wheezing with the effort to catch his breath between the helpless giggles. Gellert’s nose wrinkles as the wizard lets out a “ha!” that sounds entirely too mocking for his taste.

“Fine, I’ll get eaten by a Dementor at one point in my life,” he says sourly, “and that’ll be the end of our world domination as you know it because there is no fucking way anyone in their right mind is going to follow someone whose favourite food is lemon drops..”

“You follow me just fine,” snorts Albus, brushing away a stray tear of joy. Gellert tilts his head and considers him a moment. Shrugs in acquiescence. “Do try again, Gell, you almost had it last time.”

“Does it have to be just one memory?”

This time, it’s Albus who tilts his head in quiet appraisal. “I suppose not? I think the memory is something that is used as an anchor point for the spell to take hold. It’s easier for people to remember true happiness when they have a memory that fits it perfectly.” He chews his lip thoughtfully for a moment. “I think the Patronus actually works off the emotion, though, so if you can call that up and sustain it through multiple memories.. go for it?”

Gellert shrugs. He doesn’t know if it’s going to work, not really, not after five hours of seeing Al stare hopefully into the empty space before them. Doesn’t know if a Patronus still responds when one’s blood is steeped in dark magic, either, but Albus seems to think it will.

Albus thinks too much.

He rolls his shoulders back. His eyes flutter shut. The barn hums with residual magic. Loose tendrils of white dance across his eyelids – he must tell Albus that the Muggle-repellent is fading – before it grows dark. There is something half-mad in this pursuit of magic. Something foreign, something long-forgotten.

He relishes every second of it.

_The wild thrum of power tugging at his navel, swooping down in his belly, burning his throat. The blood in the water, the song in the air. Albus, laughing, head tipped back, magic dancing and sparking across his fingertips, roaring some utter nonsense about this world being theirs and theirs alone.._

Gellert softly exhales the spell.

“Expecto patronum.”

Magic rolls out of him in a steady, sweeping wave. He hums as something inside of him loosens at the words. Releases a breath as the hairs on his arms rise.

“Gell,” says Albus, in a strangely strangled tone of voice, “look.”

He steps back the second he opens his eyes. Shakes his head in disbelief.

“Erm,” he says, blinking up at the silver-tinged light, “I don’t think _this_ is anything remotely close to inconspicuous?”

Albus’ laughter washes over him in waves. Red-golden hair threads through with silver as the wizard steps closer to Gellert’s magic. To his shield. His guardian.

His mouth curves into a smile as he sees gleaming scales, a strong tail, fangs that glint pure white. The Patronus all but folds itself into the barn’s largest space, surrounded by haystacks and wood, and he’s not surprised that Albus is still laughing when the shape seems to expel thin, silver-white smoke. He huffs out a surprised laugh of his own as one of the wings sweeps over his head, missing him by inches.

A dragon is a dangerous, dangerous Patronus to have.

“It’s extraordinary,” hums Albus, raising his hand to its wing almost reverently. The agreement is a warm trickle of joy down his spine. “Though, yes, not at all suited to its original purpose.”

Gellert barks out a laugh at that. “I could still send it into your room.”

“Don’t you dare,” warns Al lazily, amusement dancing in the syllables. “I think it would greatly resent the cramped space if you did.”

“ _I_ resent that cramped space,” mutters Gellert. Albus’ room is a mess, of course, made even impossibly smaller by its vast collection of books and parchments. “You can hardly turn around in there. You can hardly even make it to the goddamn bed without stumbling over twenty different trinkets.”

“I know where everything is. It’s fine this way.”

Gellert doesn’t dignify that with a response.

*****

He likes the nights in Godric’s Hollow best of all. The town gets sleepy late in these summer evenings. Children play outside after dusk, breathless excitement mingling with the gentle chirping of crickets in the grass. He has had to sidestep many a merry chase through the winding streets of the town. Austria was like this, too, in winter, when the snow would pile high and the ice would be strong enough to skate on.

He likes the silence that follows even better. Just past midnight, like clockwork, Godric’s Hollow edges into a quiet slumber that it cannot be roused from. He will not go to sleep for a few hours yet.

_blood in the halls blood upon the table blood dripping onto the marble floor_

He shakes his head slowly. Blinks away the vision that looms at the outskirts of his mind. It won’t come to pass for another five years. He’s got time to decide what to do with it, though he suspects he won’t want to counter it when the time does arrive.

Albus Dumbledore is a welcome distraction.

“Hey.”

He lifts his head, smiling. “Hey,” he says. Drops his head back down onto the ground again. Drawls out a rather lazy, sleep-tinged concern. “Hope you don’t mind me taking your spot.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah. You know how it is.”

He isn’t surprised at Albus’ sigh or at the fact that the other wizard just settles down next to him. They have had a few nights like this. Albus desperate to get out of his house. Him desperate to get away from himself.

If he’s being selfish, which he thinks he is, he thinks he likes these nights in Godric’s Hollow only because of this.

“How about you?” he asks, hearing a slight hitch in Albus’ breath. “Everything all right?”

“Had a fight with Abe again. Same old. He doesn’t think I’m doing right by Ariana. Complains about the day-to-day stuff on repeat as if that’s going to change anything.”

“You’re doing fine, Al.”

Albus scoffs. “Tell _him_ that.”

He nudges Albus with his elbow. Repeats his words. “You’re doing fine.”

“As fine as you.”

“Ouch, Al.”

He drops his head onto Al’s shoulder with a sigh. He doesn’t want to talk about why the vision in his head keeps coating his ancestral home in blood. Doesn’t think it’d go over too well if he did. Doesn’t think Al would comprehend, not really, because Albus Dumbledore does not hate his family no matter how much he complains about them.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, “good. Let’s just enjoy the stars instead.”

“You can barely see them.”

“Thank you, Al, that’s a very non-enjoyable thing to say.”

“It’s the truth!” Albus is laughing now, the sound of it deep and rich in his throat and chest, and pointing toward the sky as if it has personally offended him. “The willow branches obscure half of it and the clouds do the rest, don’t they? Your little lights might look like fireflies to Muggles, but they’re a hazard for stargazing.”

“Next time, I’m going to let you stumble around Godric’s Hollow at one in the morning in an attempt to find me.”

He yawns and presses up closer to Albus’ body. Fights the contented sigh that threatens to break free at the feeling of Al’s warmth against his cheek. He’s been out here for a while. Nights in Godric’s Hollow have been chillier this past week. It’s only natural for them to huddle close.

At least, that is what he would say to Albus if he asked. Albus never does.

“Gell?”

“Hm?”

“Do you ever sleep?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “You help.”

The small lights he summoned earlier are not much help when trying to distinguish the stars in the sky. They don’t fare a whole lot better when he lifts his head and attempts to make sense of Albus’ expression. He barely catches a furrowed brow and a bite of his lip before Albus speaks again.

“I can’t ever really tell what you’re thinking.”

He blinks. Rubs his eyes tiredly. Wants to weigh his words, but it’s night and he has not slept in almost two days. Decides to go with honesty instead.

“This bothers you.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say _that_. I do like a bit of mystery.” Albus’ elbow nudges his side softly. The teasing notes in his voice lilt more than the disappointment does. “But it does seem like you can always tell with me.”

“Al,” he says, thinking it’s the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard, “I can _never_ tell with you.”

Albus’ mind is a far too twisted, sinewy thing to make sense of. He thinks he’s made his peace with that, now, after a few weeks of getting entirely lost in his glimpses of it. _Getting lost in his eyes like a love-struck.. yeah._ He snorts out a laugh.

“Oh,” Albus says, then, and his laugh comes more fully at the sound of surprise lurking within.

“What did you think?” he asks, rolling over on his side to look at Albus. He can’t help the grin that curves at the corners of his mouth. Can’t help the laughter that continues to escape him, either, even when it causes Albus to frown. “That I’m adept at Legilimency? That I know how to invade a mind without being noticed, that I can just slip under someone’s skin that way and have them be none the wiser?”

Albus’ cheeks colour with the shade of sunrise. “Why not? I can.”

“Yes, well,” he says, “you’re Albus.”

“Oh, well-spotted.”

“Seer brain, remember?” He tries not to sound too bitter. Honestly, he tries. “My Occlumency might be unorthodox, but doing any sort of Legilimency would probably be akin to volunteering to be buried alive.”

“It _is_ a bit like that. Some lose themselves in someone else’s head, especially if that person’s adept at Occlumency. Wizards have gone mad from it.”

“Not you.”

“No,” says Albus, and his eyes meet Gellert’s now. “Not me.”

His chest burns, tightens, constricts at the scent of the ocean that invades the space between them. His treacherous heart drums the sound of waves crashing upon distant shores. The taste of salt lingers on his tongue. His body feels caught in an undertow, swept along with whatever tide, but his mind is still. Steady.

He undoes his Occlumency thread by thread, pattern by pattern, weave by weave.

“Legilimency is all but outlawed these days. They don’t teach it, do they?” He knows the answers to his questions, but still he asks Albus. Asks him for the impossible. “It is considered a violation under Wizarding law, in most instances. Seers are exempt from such violations, because they don’t know anyone who’d be willing to dive into our heads.”

Albus’ eyes burn with something he cannot define. “They haven’t met me.”

“Gryffindor,” he says, affectionately.

“Do you want me to?”

He inclines his head.

“ _Now_ who’s the bloody Gryffindor?” mutters Al, and his chest loosens at the sound of Al’s startled laugh. “Are you sure?”

His little finger hooks itself around Albus’ little finger, as if he means to make a Muggle promise. _I’ve never been more sure of anything._ He wills the thought out into the space between them. Their noses almost touch. If he closes his eyes, he will see the sea.

Albus’ hand grasps his own loosely. His fingers softly thread through Gellert’s, as if he is concerned they might break if he holds on too tight. Their feet tangle the way their fingers do, weaving and intertwining until he’s no longer sure where Albus ends and he begins. His stomach swoops down as if it means to plunge itself beneath the waves that threaten to crash down on him.

“Legilimens,” breathes Albus, and the world _explodes_.

_The marble is cold underneath his feet. He taps out a rhythm, counting his steps. Darkness blinds his eyes. The cloth is tight around his face._

“ _For Merlin’s sake, cover yourself,” snaps his father, and he recoils from the high table as if slapped. “And keep your mouth shut. The last thing the ambassador needs is to be told he won’t live past his fortieth naming day.”_

_Mother’s tomb is warmer in the sun. The courtyard is alive with flowers. It’s the first time he’s seen an agapanthus. The air smells like summer rain._

“ _Nice to meet you,” smiles the girl from the village. He tries to look anywhere but her eyes. Her neck twists impossibly; her gaze is that of the dead. The boy from the water well who smiled at her before will kill her. He knows all this, but simply says it’s nice to meet her too._

Gellert takes a breath. Another. Another. He releases Austria as if he never means to return. Lets go of Nurmengard in the next breath, until he is in the forests that are older than anything he knows.

There is water in the forest. There never used to be, but there is an ocean here with him.

_Albus,_ he beckons, _come now._

He laughs as the tide swallows him whole.

_He meets Albus anew, sitting under the tree, and his body’s tight with the expectation of drowning._

_Aunt Hilda smiles knowingly when he comes home the next day, hair a mess, clothes rumpled, laughter in his eyes. He kisses her cheek and does the dishes without complaint._

_Albus’ lips are coated in the chocolate they demanded off the baker’s boy. There are stray crumbs of cake on his chin. He wants to brush off the remnants of enjoyment with his own hands. Albus scourgifies everything before he can convince his fingers into action._

“ _Of course it won’t be like that forever,” argues Albus, and his hair blazes in the morning sun. There is a song in the air again and he thinks Albus Dumbledore might yet be his undoing. “We do need to control the beginning stages. For the good of everyone. The greater good, if you will.”_

_I could kiss you like lovers do, if I were brave and not such a fool,_ he thinks, and lets the waves claim him.

The presence in his head withdraws. He blinks against the summer sun that beams down through the spirals of the willow tree. Albus’ hand clasps his as if it is a vine that seeks to wrap itself around him indefinitely. His cheeks burn as bright as Albus’. He closes his eyes.

“Did you mean that?” asks Albus, voice lower than Gellert’s ever heard it. “That last part?”

“I’m not brave,” he says, rather stupidly.

Albus’ voice turns hoarse. “I am.”

He wants to laugh out the challenge. Wants to tell Al how stupid he’s being, thinking that he can just take control of fate that way. Wants to tell Al all the ways in which they can’t, and must not, and shouldn’t. Wants to warn Al about all the things that happen when the world invites itself back into their shared space. Wants to laugh and speak about all the disasters the ocean has created and chant about how he doesn’t blame Al for causing him to wind up shipwrecked.

But then Albus’ lips brush against his own, soft and warm and inviting, and Gellert Grindelwald no longer wants anything that isn’t _this_.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat at Al’s all-too-quick withdrawal. Extracts his hand from Al’s grip in the next moment and reaches for Al’s wild, fire-blessed hair instead. He winds his fingers into its waves and coils his hand at the nape of Al’s neck. His eyes find Al’s, wide and open, before he _dares_.

“Yes?” he murmurs, brushing his own lips against Albus’, breathing a question he doesn’t yet dare guess the answer to.

“Yes,” comes the affirmation, gasped into the curve of his mouth, challenging and new. “Gell–“

His name half-tumbles off Al’s lips before he captures it. The rest of it vanishes in his mouth, a breath and sigh all at once. _Albus, Albus,_ he chants back, no longer caring if the world hears his magic thunder forth from his chest, _Albus._ He folds himself into the spaces Albus leaves for him, legs entangled, noses touching, hands roaming free, and loses himself in them too.

The lights he summoned come crashing down to the earth around them. He laughs into Albus’ mouth at the shock of his magic finally failing him. Albus’ hand threads through his hair and tilts his head back with only a little pressure.

“Please don’t start a fire,” warns Al, voice so low against his neck that it makes his toes curl with pleasure. “I want to enjoy this.”

He smirks at the easy admission. “I want to enjoy _you_ ,” he teases, always game for one-upping the only wizard who’s ever been his equal. Lets out a gasp as Albus’ hand tightens around his hair. Acquiesces with as much grace as he can muster. “I promise not to start any fires.”

Albus’ answering kiss is nothing like the ocean. There is no tidal wave locked inside the trail he blazes across Gellert’s mouth. There is no ebb and flow in the relentless way Albus seeks to claim him. He’s gasping for breath all the same, gasping it against Albus’ mouth and skin, but there is no undertow in this.

There is just _Albus_.

“Come here,” he pleads, somewhere between kiss and breath, “bitte, Al.” Digs his nails into Albus’ shoulders impatiently. “Solnyshko, come.”

“I thought you were sleepy?”

Sometimes, he hates how smug Albus sounds. He reaches up and kisses that too-proud mouth until he’s almost certain it’ll leave a bruise. Makes his grip on Al’s hair a little too vice-like, a little too strong. Hisses out a curse when Albus shifts against him and presses even closer to him.

“You’re making it im-pos-si-ble,” he sing-songs into Albus’ ear, “for me to feel like I’m not already dreaming.”

Albus tilts his head back and arches his brow at that. “Merlin, you really haven’t slept in forever,” comes the damning verdict. “You’re not usually like this.”

“You don’t usually kiss me,” he shoots back. Yawns in the next breath. His speech is slightly slurred and petulant by now. The lights he conjured are flickering. Dying. “I want to enjoy that some more.”

“You will,” promises Albus. His lips are soft on Gellert’s brow. “Tomorrow.”

Albus’ arms wrap around him decisively. He murmurs a hazy protest, muffled into Albus’ chest, but allows it all the same. The scent of lemons and honey curls into his nose as he carefully folds his fingers around Albus’ shirt. He knows better than to refuse Albus on this. Knows better than to demand outright, though he cannot quite help pressing his lips to the nape of Albus’ neck before settling into the embrace.

“Promise me?” he mumbles instead.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” laughs Albus. His heartbeat is steady beneath Gellert’s ear. “I promise.”

_I want to believe,_ his pulse hammers out under his skin. _I have never wanted to believe in anything more than in you._

“Tomorrow,” is the last word on his lips before he drifts into the dark.


	3. wand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a certain pact to a certain duel.. I cannot possibly stare at this particular chapter any longer than I already have. So, I come to offer you space for a smile and for tears.

*****

He is quite certain that Albus Dumbledore was put on this earth to be the death of him.

“No, no, not like that,” he admonishes, voice sharp, “you’re probably going to take your bloody eye out when you approach it like that.” A pause. “Or mine.”

Albus does not look very impressed with him. He’s not sure he feels impressed with himself, either, really, not when even the simplest of discussions winds up being a two-hour affair that doesn’t leave anyone as the victor.

“Excuse me for wanting to get this right. The book was very clear that the pattern needs to be drawn tight.” Albus gestures as if to emphasize his point. Gellert’s already decided to pay it no heed. “Nobody’s attempted this monstrosity of a ritual in hundreds of years. We can’t get this wrong. If this is going to wind up being anything like the last chess match..”

“Fuck you, Al,” he says, not really meaning it. “That last chess match was a fluke.”

Albus, damn him, just snorts out a scathing reply that is the most derisive Gellert’s ever heard.

“Try approaching it from a different angle,” he urges, eyes fixed on the silver pattern before them, “and please don’t jab your wand at me again.”

“I will jab it between your fucking ribs,” snarls Al, hair coming loose from its tie, “if you don’t stop talking right now.”

He raises his hands in surrender. Observes Albus rather warily as the wizard’s wand trails complex patterns in the air that wrap around the pattern Gellert drew with his own magic. The existing pattern lights up with gold strands as Albus’ wand weaves, tightens, expands, changes the thrum of magic that reverberates through the earth.

Time stretches out before him as he watches Albus work. The wizard’s brow is furrowed in concentration as his magic wraps around Gellert’s. There are no trial runs of this. Failure to complete the spell is not an option.

The last time it was cast successfully was in the time of the Hogwarts Founders.

“That should do it,” sighs Albus, finally, lifting his wand away from the pattern before lowering it altogether. “Do you think I got it right?”

He laughs as the pattern lights up before it darkens and fades.

“We’re still alive,” he remarks, wonder quarreling with awe in his voice. “I’d say we got it right.”

“Don’t be too sure,” mutters Al. “We could still die during the pact.”

“Live a little.”

Albus huffs out a rather nervous laugh. “I’m trying.”

He wishes he could reach out to Albus. Squeeze his hand, kiss his brow, tell him it will be okay. Instead, he stands before Albus and attempts to convey the same through his eyes alone. His fingers clench reflexively around the hem of his shirt before they grasp his wand.

“For the last time,” he decides to check, “do you really want to do this?”

“Yes. Do you?”

_With you, anything._

“Yes.”

“Then I will draw my wand to shield you,” recites Albus, “and stand between you and death.”

“I will raise my shield around you,” he replies, “and draw my wand in your stead. Over you, death will have no dominion.”

“Over you, death will have no hold.” Albus is pale in the moonlight. Paler still as the patterns upon the floor become illuminated. “I will find you in every life, under every moon, and be the voice that brings you home to shore.”

“I will find you under every sun, within all lives to come, and be the voice that eases your way.”

He watches the pattern swirl and rise around them. With it comes the tell-tale rush, the twang of iron on the back of his tongue, the urge to curl his toes and raise his eyes skyward. A dragon’s roar, a phoenix’s song, and between it all his mother’s final blessing.

_May you always dance on the other wind._

His voice interweaves with Albus’ words. He fights the urge to kneel, to yield, to bow. The commitment lodges in his bones, straightens his spine, thrums in his blood before the sea rises and the fire consumes him whole.

“My shield is yours, my wand is yours, my life is yours. My wand is yours, my life is yours. My life is yours.”

_I am yours as you are mine, I am yours as you are mine, I am yours as you are mine._

The pattern fades. The words no longer run an endless circle in his brain. His limbs are liquid; his mind a haze. He wonders, dimly, if Albus is on the verge of forgetting all the rest too. If this is how Death is appeased, through a half-ritual that could destroy everything.

_Death is just another adventure,_ says Albus, voice slipping between the haze and the undertow in his mind. _One I don’t fancy having just yet._

_Legilimens,_ he thinks fondly, meeting Albus’ twinkling eyes.

Albus’ reply is a warm embrace. _Seer. Love._

“Blood to hide, blood to tie,” they finally chant in unison, “blood to flow.”

“Yours in mine.”

“Mine in yours.”

Albus takes a step forward.

“Together?” he asks.

He inclines his head in confirmation. “Together.”

The cut of his own wand barely hurts. The incision on his hand is not deep enough to leave a scar. Albus, too, barely winces as he draws his own blood. This, as everything else tonight, they do in unison.

_I am not afraid, I am not afraid._

His eyes flutter shut as Albus, too, closes his. The touch of Albus’ hand can almost be called tentative. He interlaces his fingers with Al’s and locks his grip firmly.

_I am yours as you are mine,_ chants the blood between them. _You are mine as I am yours._

His fingers slip out of Al’s grasp as the magic wraps itself around them. His palm turns upward almost of its own volition. Albus’ hand palm, next to his own, turns upward as well. A drop of blood rises from each of their twin cuts. He watches, mesmerized, as the droplets begin to glow and interlace with one another.

His heart fills up with ocean as he looks at Albus. The other wind rips at his spine, settles right below his heartbeat, sweeps up into his lungs. One day, he knows, they will settle right on the edge of the shore. They will build their home between sand and fog, shielded by wind and waves, and they will forget about the world that will always remember them.

_It’s never been about power,_ he thinks, even as the twin droplets of blood finally merge and knock the breath out of him. Around the glowing blood, a rather ornate pendant takes shape. _It’s always been about making things right._

Albus really has no appreciation for the uniqueness of this moment.

“Well,” remarks his lover, breathless and amused all at once, “that has _got_ to be the gaudiest-looking blood pact in the history of all blood pacts.”

Gellert raises an eyebrow. “It’s not _that_ bad.”

“It’s yours, then,” decides Albus. His wand sweeps into a circular motion and creates a chain that threads through the pendant. “Keep it safe.”

“Contrary to semi-popular belief,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around the chain, “I am actually not _that_ big of an idiot.”

Albus’ eyes light up. He doesn’t hear Albus’ reply.

The blood pact carries a _heartbeat_.

He feels it the moment the chain lands around his neck and the pendant crashes against him. A gasp tears itself from his mouth as the steady beat seems to lodge itself just beneath his skin. His nails dig into the palms of his hands. They squeeze until the cut of the pact coats his fingers red with blood. Albus is beneath his skin, collapsing against him, _remaking_ him.

“What? Gell, what’s going–“

He bridges the gap between them in a hurry. Captures the question that tumbles from Albus’ mouth with his own. Cuts off any words that might follow after by grasping blindly for Albus’ hair, his face, his shirt. He leaves traces of blood on his lover. Marks him with every touch. Magic buzzes across his lips and performs a rather merry dance around his fingertips. He laughs, merry, wild, _fey_ , and forgets all the rest.

“It worked,” he tells Albus. Blinks back the tears that threaten to take hold of his eyes. “Merlin, Al, don’t you want to feel it? You.. You’re just everywhere to me. All there is, all–“

Albus cuts him off with a kiss and a smile. “You are mine now.”

_I have been yours from the beginning. I will be yours at whatever end._

His skin crawls with magic. His blood carries two hearts. There is not a universe in which he will not give in to Albus Dumbledore. He knows this as they stumble across the floor in a slow dance before he falls into the hay and pulls Albus down with him. He doesn’t say the words, but presses them into Albus’ skin with every breath. Undoes rows of buttons on Albus’ clothes with all the impatience of a man whose magic is finally, finally failing him.

_Yours, yours, yours as you are mine._

He smiles and trails lazy kisses across the smattering of freckles that curves down Al’s chest. Al’s hand is threaded through his hair rather loosely. They have been here before, playful, loving, giving freely. He knows Albus as he knows himself. His teeth trace soft and hard nips across Al’s shoulders. His fingers are already slipping down to hips that rise to meet him, to soft inner thighs and a hardness he means to coax into his hands before long.

Albus’ hand tightens around strands of his hair. His other hand locks around Gellert’s wrist. He lets out a laugh of utter wild abandon as Albus _pushes_ against him. He is on his back before he knows it, arms raised in mock surrender, powerless against the wizard who is now smiling and astride him. His head tips back as Al pulls at his hair, exposing his throat and leaving him gasping for mercy mercy _mercy_ as the wizard’s lips ghost over his skin.

“Fuck, Al,” he swears aloud, two hearts still at war inside his breast, “fuck, like _that_ , yes.”

Albus’ laugh is throaty and amused in that dark way only he can ever tease out of the Gryffindor. Raw curses spill from his lips as Al rolls his hips _just so_ and presses one hand down on both his wrists. He pushes up against him the only way he knows how, jumbled and messy and wild and claiming all at once, and Al’s answering hisses of pleasure tell him he’s getting some part of this _just right_.

“I need you,” he says, and the pact lilts into song within his veins. “Al..”

Albus’ response sets his magic ablaze.

*****

“I’m glad it worked, you know.”

Al’s voice is soft in his ear. He grins as the barn lights up with brighter, near-white silver. Watches the Patronus circle above their heads in flight. Even in this form, the phoenix seems to burn with an inner fire. It dances to the sway of his fingers, wrapping tendrils of silver around his wrist with every flare of affection he feels toward Albus.

“Remind me to not cast this one around other people anymore,” he murmurs, sending the phoenix higher into the rafters. “With the sort of magic I do, having a Patronus like this one really does not make any sense.”

“Someday it will.” Albus sounds confident. The wizard’s hair tickles Gellert’s chin as he tucks his head into Gellert’s chest. “When we stand together, with the Hallows united, and lead the Wizarding World out of the shadows. Then, this Patronus will make perfect sense.”

“When I say to the world that you are mine and mine alone,” says Gellert, wrapping an arm around Albus’ shoulders. His voice lilts into almost-certain prophecy. “When you show them your power and then come home to me.”

“As long as we keep the pact hidden,” yawns Al.

“One day, it won’t have to be hidden.” He knows this as surely as he knows the sun rises every morning and chases the moon out of the sky. “This should never have been taboo in the first place. If more would commit to this, we would see such glorious magic.”

“They’ll never go for it. They are intent on keeping their bloodlines alive instead.” Albus’ lips press a kiss to his skin. “They will not want their heirs to wrap their magic around another’s, unless that other can give them grandchildren.”

“Pfah! We will teach them otherwise.”

“Confident.”

“Truth.”

They lull into the quiet for a while. The phoenix dips and weaves through the rafters on a merry dance. He pulls Albus closer. Leaves stray kisses in his hair and on his brow. Albus is long-limbed exhaustion and warm affection rolled into one, mumbling too-sweet nothings into his skin until he is certain that the words will be etched into his bones for years to come. His bloodstream thrums with Albus’ presence. The rolling tide within seeks to overpower his own twists and turns of air.

Tonight, he wants to let it again and again and again.

“Gell?”

“Hm?”

“How far does the Muggle repellent stretch now?”

“After that experimentation last week that almost took the roof clean off the barn? Think I managed to make it stretch to the outskirts of the field.”

“How high does it go?”

“How high does it..?” He sits up, rather abruptly, and almost makes Albus topple onto the hay beside them very unceremoniously. He settles for glaring at the other wizard. “Al, you can’t be serious.”

“You tested _your_ Patronus,” Al says, and his jaw juts into something he has come to recognize as a futility to argue with. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about mine, now?”

“Why can’t you cast it in here the way I did a while ago?”

“Because,” says Al, patience lacing his voice, “I have a theory.”

He groans outright now. Albus and his theories usually tend to be inseparable, highly confusing, and volatile in nature. He rubs his eyes tiredly and watches Albus’ face light up with whatever harebrained idea landed in his head. _Gods be good,_ he thinks rather wildly, _you are beautiful like this._

“I think a Patronus adjusts itself to the space allotted to it. Your dragon was nowhere near a full-grown dragon, after all, as the span of even one of their wings is bigger than this bloody barn. So I thought, maybe, if you are in a small space it will be a small dragon.”

“And if you’re in a big space, it’s going to be life-sized?”

“Exactly.”

“And you want to cast it out there?”

“Preferably.”

“And if it stretches beyond the Muggle repellent?”

Albus shrugs. Grins.

He finds himself grinning back.

They dress a little too quickly. Albus’ shirt is buttoned so haphazardly that even Aunt Hilda would have a conniption over the state of it. He struggles with his own shirt before casting it aside altogether. They stay barefoot. Hay sticks out of Albus’ hair and he’s fairly certain he looks even messier than that.

The phoenix is the first out of the barn. Albus is hot on its heels, sprinting outside with laughter already in his voice. He follows the two a bit more warily, though he supposes his joy has streamed out into the Patronus. It’s easy to keep it up now, with Albus smiling like that and Albus’ heartbeat in his veins.

“Watch this!” shouts Al. He has come to a halt a little further downfield, while the phoenix seems content to simply weave its way around Gellert. “Are you ready?”

“Ready,” he says after a pause, remembering belatedly that Albus cannot see him nodding.

The spell is a mere whisper on the summer breeze. White tendrils encase the tip of Albus’ wand before they spiral outward. Tendrils coalesce into a vapour, a mist, and finally shape themselves into a ghostly form that stands out starkly from the midnight sky.

The phoenix renews its flight and sweeps over to Albus. His heart stutters in his chest as it perches itself on Albus’ shoulder. Warmth settles deep inside him as he watches the phoenix’s silver light mingle with the vague red of Albus’ hair.

_I love you_ , he says, only to himself, and watches the phoenix burn in response.

Albus’ Patronus slowly lights up the night.

The tail comes first. It swirls into a near-perfect circle before it stretches into glittering scales and a rather soft-looking belly. Out come the legs and claws, next, but he isn’t looking at those anymore. A rush of air sucks itself out of his lungs and rushes toward the Patronus. There are wings, great and shining and so beautiful he can barely take his eyes off them. There is a head that expels smoke and sets the sky ablaze.

There is a life-sized dragon bearing down upon them and all Albus Dumbledore can do is laugh.

“You were right,” he comments.

Albus’ smile is brighter than he ever remembers the sun being. He is truly beautiful like this, with magic rolling off him in waves and his eyes alight with something entirely otherworldly. He finds himself laughing back, phoenix brightening on Albus’ shoulder until the night explodes with silver light.

“Imagine what we can do together,” says Albus, reaching for him and threading his fingers through Gellert’s. “Imagine the world we might make.”

He doesn’t reply, except to drop his chin on Albus’ other shoulder and wrap his free hand around Al’s waist. His eyes see only the dragon. He knows he should see more. Knows his Sight should be here, lilting his voice and seeping pain into his limbs the way it has done since his birth.

His mind is quiet. His heart is not.

There is nothing here for him except Albus. He presses his lips to the other wizard’s skin and sees the dragon flare into brightest light. The phoenix melts away into the shadows, with barely a breeze that ruffles Albus’ hair.

For the first time in his life, Gellert Grindelwald is scared of the future.

*****

There are snowflakes in his hair.

Patterns swirl in the snow that crunches beneath his feet. The wind blows them away as soon as his eyes settle on them, as though their creation is not meant to be known to him. There is ice on his lips and a chill in his limbs. His hand comes away red.

He shakes his head. Watches the snowflakes glint, fall, and die. There is a smile on his face that does not belong to him. His tongue is that of a stranger, speaking words he wishes to reclaim the moment they are uttered.

_Do Seers See their own death?_

He stares at the tip of Aberforth Dumbledore’s wand and wishes he could feel anything at all.

“Go on then,” he says, all tilted chin and accented arrogance, “remove all trace of me. It is what you want, isn’t it?”

Somewhere, beside him, Albus is speaking. There is a godforsaken bizarre pleading quality to his voice, alien in his ears, but he doesn’t hear the words. _Blood s_ _till s_ _peaks louder than you,_ he almost says, and taps out the drumming beat of his own heart through his fingers. There is a thrall to his magic that answers the tapping motions. _And oh, I_ _d_ _id_ _miss th_ _is_ _rush._

A spell knocks him back a few steps. The boy, enraged.

“Good,” he nods, forever teaching, “again.”

This time, when the spell flashes, he stumbles. Laughs in surprise. His hand is coated in thickened red molasses. Snow appears and disappears all around him. The air around him ripples and recoils. He raises his wand.

“Stop!”

He has not been able to refuse Albus much. Has not had cause to, not when Albus makes it so easy to yield. The refusal is far more foreign on his tongue than any of his love has been.

“Come away with me and I will,” he says. Tilts his head. Designs his words to cut. “But then, today I think we finally both know what the true answer to that really is.”

“Manipulative, lying, asinine, murderous _snake_!”

The brother almost takes him by surprise. Almost, but not quite. One year too many at Durmstrang, too many years blindfolded, a Seer’s mind honed to fight, and he already knows the magic long before it reaches its mark. A hand to halt it, a wand to combat it.

“Come on then,” he snarls, slightly dismayed that the brother managed to stay on his feet. “Get rid of me.”

“Abe, no! Gellert, stop encouraging him!”

“Shut up, Albus,” they both snap, united for the first and last time.

He smirks lazily. “Come on, you stupid little boy,” he goads, brushing his hair out of his eyes impatiently, “show me how the good side fights.”

The good side, as it turns out, uses a great deal more annoying hexes than he ever would. He side-steps half of them, including a rather nasty streaking Bat-Bogey, before his eyes narrow and he starts casting back.

_Magic is a living, breathing thing,_ he recalls, summoning wordless flames and spells that burn and flash brighter than the summer sun. _It bends only when you ask it to. Breaks only when you need it to._

He wishes he could control his heart the same.

“Stop!” Albus’ voice carries a frantic tone. He almost lowers his wand over it. _Almost._ “Stop fighting!”

“You’d still defend him?” snarls the brother. His wand slashes brightest red, like the red that coats Gellert’s hand and then vanishes again. “He twisted your head round with those fairytales, Albus.” The brother’s wand is a flurry of spells and shields. Gellert lazily flicks his own wand at the centre of the shield. Grins as it dissipates. “One smile of that one,” grunts the brother, undeterred, “and you took leave of your senses. It’s unnatural, that is.”

His tongue is coated in ice. _Unnatural,_ the shadows hiss at him. _You’re a child playing at a game he doesn’t understand._

He thinks he understands plenty.

There’s nothing lazy about his spellwork, now. Nothing teasing and tumbling, the way he plays with it around Albus. Nothing slippery and quick, the way he dances around Aunt Hilda. He’s all bared teeth and snappy half-Latin, intent and will bending his magic more than words ever could. He casts from memory, from experimentation, from half-formed ideas.

Albus says nothing.

Albus’ hands clutch his wand as though it’s a venomous snake raised to spit pain at him.

Albus doesn’t even look at him.

_Nothing, nothing,_ his magic rages, _at the end of all things the ever-winter will still chill your bones and lead the hollow heart astray._

_Hollow. Hallow._

He laughs, comprehending.

He is on the ground before he knows good and well what’s happening. There is not enough air in his chest. He heaves and gasps, willing oxygen to come back to him. The brother got lucky, then, because he was too damn focused on Albus to care that they weren’t the only ones in the room. He grins. Finally catches his breath. Rolls to his knees and then back onto his feet. Brushes back his hair impatiently, cursing its length.

“What’s that?”

He blinks at the brother’s question. Questions are for after duels, for when one is still alive and wondering how on earth one is allowed to be so. Questions are for classrooms, no more and no less. Battle magic has no place for them, but then again he supposes children of Hogwarts aren’t raised to consider a world at war. _Undoing, unbecoming,_ his mind whispers, _this is why we will not be met with opposition._

“What?” he asks, all the same, because he has not forgotten his manners.

The brother points at his throat. At his chest. For one lone and rather insane moment, he believes it to be a trick. A ploy to get him to drop his guard. A tactic to get the better of him.

In the next moment, something glints up at him.

_Well, fuck._

“Nothing,” he says, quickly. _Too_ quickly. His hand rises to the chain. “A mere trinket.”

“That’s a fucking blood pact, that is.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Abe.”

Albus, eyes wild, is shaking his head in a silent ‘no’ at Gellert. He huffs at the sight. He wasn’t about to inform the brother that he was right just this once in his rather short life. Wasn’t about to be that fucking stupid.

“I’m not talking nonsense! Professor Potter spoke about them only last month in class.” The boy’s jaw juts out in a stubborn set that is almost a carbon copy of Albus’ obstinacy. He would laugh if the situation wasn’t so dire. He’d laugh even harder if the brother didn’t sound so damn gleeful about it. “That’s beyond illegal to have.”

He tucks the chain back into his shirt. Feels the pendant, warm and reassuring, beat a soft pulse against his heart. Illegal. Like so many other things, constricted by the rules of man. Illegal. Controlled, ignored, judged.

“They’ll have you for this, you know. No traipsing around Europe for you,” sneers the brother. His eyes are harder than stone. “That pact is a one-way ticket into Azkaban. Should last you some, oh, twenty years?”

“I’m not going to Azkaban,” he says. _Come and take me,_ flares his magic. Prophecy colours his syllables, deepens the foreign accent in his voice. He knows some things for certain, after all. “That is not the prison I will die in.”

“Gellert hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Albus, don’t.”

Albus is defiant, blazing, defensive. Gellert’s voice is sharper than he means it to be. The brother glances between them, now, mouth slightly ajar, eyes flashing back and forth as if he is following a Quidditch match. Gellert closes his own eyes as he sees the comprehension flood into the brother’s features.

“You. Both of you.”

“Abe..”

“No, Albus! No!” The brother’s voice is sharp, cutting. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear _anything_! Did you think, at all?” There’s something scathing in his tone now. Gellert opens his eyes and flexes his wand in warning. “Of course you didn’t. You’re caught up in his pretty face and you don’t see how he’s poisoning you!”

“Shut your damn mouth,” hisses Albus. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t I? All those nights you were out with him, all those whispered conversations that die the second Ariana or I walk into a room, all those mornings when I heard you climb back into the window or heard him climb back out? All those times you left me alone with Ari, all those moments when you would stare at him like he’s all that will ever matter to you, all those days lately when I came looking for you and would see your hands tangled in that bird’s nest he calls hair and his hands under your shirt?”

“I’d hardly call that poison,” Gellert says. His laugh is a good deal softer than he means it to be. “That’s not what this is.”

“That’s what you _are_.” The brother’s voice is filled with contempt. “I don’t give a fuck about Albus kissing a boy, always knew it’d come to that somehow. I care about him kissing _you_.” The sound of disgust in the back of the brother’s throat is altogether audible. “I care about him pledging to go to Europe with you when his place is here with his family. I care about that fucking pendant dangling from that chain around your throat.” The brother’s features twist into a snarl. “I care about the two of you thinking you can pull Ariana into your world of make-believe.”

“I didn’t force any of it.”

“All you do is force.”

He laughs. Shakes his head.

“You won’t tell,” says Albus, face drawn. He is as pale as a ghost. “Abe, you can’t tell anyone.”

“I will. If you don’t stay, if you go.. I will.” The brother folds his arms. His face is the picture of mulish defiance. “He’ll go to Azkaban for this, and you’ll be free. We’ll say you were forced. He was expelled from fucking Durmstrang, after all. His word against yours.”

“I won’t speak out against him. I cannot move against him.”

_Cannot._ He almost scoffs. Wonders what happened to _will not_ and all those promises.

“Loyalty? _That_ ’s the price of the pact?”

A dull roar reverberates through his ears. The brother’s still talking, but he doesn’t hear. He doesn’t hear the condemnation any more than he hears Albus’ retaliation. He doesn’t hear the words that will shape their future. The water’s up to his lips now. Blood coats both his hands.

_What are we, if not together?_

Albus will not come with him. He knows it in this moment, with a crystal clarity that leaves him gasping out half a curse. He sees the brother’s words take hold with every passing moment. Sees Albus’ eyes dim as though magic itself is leaving him. Sees the future unfold before him.

_Alone in Europe, dancing and weaving through the halls of royalty and poverty alike. Alone in Europe, raising magic and bringing the world to heel. Alone in Europe, hunting and chasing figments of a children’s fairytale._

_Albus, hiding from the world. Albus, in a classroom, voice more patient than he’s ever heard it. Albus, in a mirror. Albus, seeking to thwart his every move. Albus, playing a game of chess so complicated that he thinks he will wind up losing just to see him smile again._

With the future comes nothing but the terrible Knowing. He would scratch his own eyes out of his head if it meant he would be spared the Sight. He would lay waste to his own heart to stop himself from feeling the certainty.

_We are alone, you and I._

When the word finally comes to his lips, it comes in slow and measured calculation. It is not a caress, the way he always heard it uttered at Durmstrang. He takes no pleasure in its utterance. He doesn’t know how anyone could, not when your insides are on the outside of your body and bile is in your throat and your heart is a treacherous sort of thing to carry.

All he wants is to _hurt_.

“Crucio.”

The brother drops to the floor, writhing and screaming. There is a high-pitched noise in the screams that makes him snarl and flick his wand again. _Thousands dead, your feet crumbling their bones to dust._ _Your magic, trapped in iron._ _Death and pain in shadows._ He blinks against the vision. Almost stumbles and lifts the spell.

That’s before Albus, too, begins to scream. “Let him go! Damn it, Gell, let him go!”

“Say please,” he laughs, hollow and wild and furious all at once, and watches Albus’ face blanch. The blue of Al’s eyes now turns cold. His own lip curls. On the floor, the boy is still screaming. “What exactly did you think I was, huh?” He twists the wand, and the boy lands in a crumpled heap on the far side of the room. “You saw the dark in me. You said it was _okay_.”

_You said I was beautiful,_ he wants to snarl, _you said you loved all of me now and always._

The spell wavers. The screams end.

His world blossoms into pain.

_searing spitting splinching_

_would you love me would you be here with me would you leave me_

_I want I want I want_

He’s on his hands and knees before the rising darkness. He blinks and watches his fingers shift from bloody to clean to bloody again. He coughs up rivulets of smoke. Watches them turn into black tar before they hit the floor.

_No,_ he prays. _Please. No._

His prayers have never been answered before. He supposes it’d be rather mad if this was the time in which they were.

The sister must have been attracted to the sound of their voices carrying. Perhaps even to the quick flashes of spells, colourful and thrumming with magic as they are. He doesn’t know how long she’s been there. Doesn’t care to guess. Her long hair is tied back the way a child’s hair is, but her eyes.. Her eyes are ancient in her youthful face, darkened and vengeful, and her very presence vibrates with something older still.

He gets to his feet again. His legs shake. His fingers tremble. His wand is some feet away from him. It matters not.

He moves toward Albus carefully. Watches the sister’s eyes shift from light to dark to light. Watches her hands gesture with smoke and vapour clinging to her every move. He moves to stand with Albus.

The brother, damn him, relocated his wand.

“Stupefy!”

“Protego,” he chants, arm coming up in front of him. He snarls out a warning. “Reducto!”

Spells flash back and forth between them, faster and more destructive than before by far. He keeps Albus at his back, but has no means with which to watch the sister. Not when the brother is hellbent on bringing him to kneel and then to ruin.

_Stupid boy, don’t turn your back on the strongest in the room._

He snarls as the dark rises and flings him sideways. His body aches as he crashes down onto the floor. He curses the warning that reverberated through his skull a few seconds too late. At times like these, he thinks his magic becomes a mocking and slippery thing. He doesn’t know which way is up or down anymore. Doesn’t think it matters, not really, not when..

Magic rips through him. He gasps and his breath is like glass, shards in his throat, shards in his eyes, shards in his chest. He’d scream if he still had a voice. He’d threaten if he had half a breath to spare. He’d.. he’d..

_rip tear kill hurt maim forget_

_forget me now forget me now rip me apart take my life_

_pain pain pain pain pain_

There is a haze in his brain. A darkness that looms over his collapsed body. He Sees it with eyes that have always been mismatched, with eyes that should have stayed hidden, with eyes that witness not just this world but also all the worlds beyond.

“Please, don’t hurt them,” comes a voice through the fog. It trembles through his skin and lands within the pit of his belly. His stomach twists at the implication. “I did this. Hurt me instead.”

_drowning, drowning, screaming, twist and turn and spew and usurp and wash away_

_drown drown drown_

_cold, so cold, so cold_

He blinks away the hurt. Lets the fog wash away the remnants of confusion that threatened to claim him. The brother, too, is screaming. He pays it no heed. Digs his hands into the earth instead. Keeps up a constant string of Russian and German that softly but surely lilts into the tales of ever-winter.

Darkness comes for Albus, now. It hovers before him. Its tendrils already reach for him, sweep back hair made of sunset, wrap around his arms in loops.

He must not fail.

He doesn’t think he’d be able to stand it if Albus Dumbledore does not ascend to power. Doesn’t want to consider a life where Albus’ eyes don’t twinkle maddeningly while he extracts secrets and truths from lies and manipulations. Doesn’t want to know the future, not if those eyes become mirrors of nothing but Death.

He doesn’t want to be alone in this world. Does not want to know any universe in which Albus Dumbledore does not exist.

And so, his shields _hold_. He watches the darkness with eyes of night, casts threads of silver, and blinks back the red that looms at the edges of his vision. _Constrict and tighten, cast away and disappear, bind bind bind,_ his desperation chants. His fingers sketch the runes, his wand still forgotten on the ground before him. Ice and thorns grow out of his hands. _Bind, shield, turn inward, repeat repeat repeat._

He is on his knees as if in prayer, but Gellert Grindelwald is done with asking gods for anything.

He wipes the blood from his nose. Inhales. Midnight coats his tongue with darkest silver.

“I am the offering,” he murmurs, and the shields stay. The dark’s hold on Albus dissipates. Turns to him. “I need, I hold, I bind.”

“Gellert..”

“I need, I hold, I bind,” he incants again, shaking his head at Albus’ warning voice, “I am this offering.”

The dark _screams_. The girl screams with it.

“Gell, stop, you’re hurting her!”

“I need,” he huffs out, eyes never leaving the sister now, “I hold.” His fingers trace patterns of lightning amid the darkness in the room. A web, a net, a cage. “I bind.”

He knows this magic will come back to bite him later. Making himself an offering is asking for trouble, but he doesn’t know how else to act. _Albus, dead on the floor. Albus, eyes sightless, magic slipping away from his still form. Albus in darkness._ Bile rises in his throat as the girl’s screams do not dissipate.

“Stop,” says Albus, and he almost listens.

He doesn’t want to do this.

He doesn’t have a _choice_.

Albus raises his wand. His own hands tremble with exhaustion. The brother rises to his feet.

“You’ll die if I do,” he says, eyes fixed on the darkness that contorts the sister’s body. His hands are shaking. There is a twang of blood in his mouth that he cannot wash away. He’s never felt colder in his life. “Better her than you.”

The flurry of spells that follows his admission is too bright, too quick, too chaotic for him to make sense of. There is the brother’s magic, earthy and confrontational. Al’s magic, all fire and blinding light. There is the sister’s, dark and twisted.

There is his, too.

_Water at his lips. Snowflakes in his hair. Falling, floating, flying._

The brother’s curse almost strikes him before his own spellwork forces the younger Dumbledore back. Then it’s Albus, swift and relentless, taking his brother’s place. He would laugh if he did not feel like weeping.

He raises his magic, silver threaded with gold, and watches Albus’ purple vines sweep toward him in a long and looming arc.

The pact around his neck pulls its chain impossibly taut. Winds itself around and around in a tightening coil of burning ice. He coughs. Gasps for air, gasps for clarity, gasps for life. There is another heartbeat against his pulse. He trembles, shakes, folds in on himself as the magic pushes outward.

The world blows up in his face.

He hurtles through the air and lands on the doorstep in a crumpled heap. His shields are gone. His own magic barely twists as he raises his hand. It’s barely a breeze on his skin. Sharp white blades stab through his brain as he rolls over. Groans as his ribs protest against the motion. The light, the light, the light won’t leave his eyes. He squeezes them shut. His mouth is stuffed with cotton.

“Ari? Ari!”

_Albus, at the end of it all. Himself, playing games to his last. A tower and a cell._ He shakes his head as the vision strikes. His eyes, all-seeing once more, fly open. _A tower. A cell._

“Ariana!”

He draws a gasping, rattling, shaking breath. The sister does not.

The sister does not.

“Ari! Ariana! Please,” comes the sound of heartbreak, “please, no.”

“Don’t be dead, please,” says the sound of glass breaking under his fingertips. Al’s voice is foreign to his ears for the first time since their initial meeting. All he does is _hurt_. “Ariana, please, please wake.”

_She won’t wake._

He knows this as surely as he knows the ebb and flow of Albus’ magic. He knows this as surely as he knows his own heart.

_Staying is death._

Gellert Grindelwald rises to his feet, unheard and unseen by those still living. He fumbles with the latch of the door only a moment. Steps over the threshold once the door is open.

He doesn’t look back.

He _runs_.


	4. blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later than expected, with far more heartache than first imagined, the final installment of this fic.. Thank you for going on Gellert's journey with me.

**blood**

_Did you have a fight with Albus? Did you have a fight with Albus?_

“Did I have a–“

Laughter startles out of his throat like a flock of chirping birds taking flight. Aunt Hilda’s voice rings through his skull as though she is still standing there, worry lacing her every word, vice-like grip closing around his wrist in mixed warning and concern. He shakes his head as if he can make his escape that way.

His bag drops to the ground as soon as the tug of the Portkey fades. He releases Aunt Hilda’s tea kettle moments later, once he feels like his feet will not betray him. It clangs to the forest floor rather unceremoniously. He supposes he should pick it up. Owl it back to her with a letter, sometime, when he can actually string a sentence together again.

He suspects Aunt Hilda would just send it back with a note calling him a stupid boy who needs a proper tea kettle, or something.

Albus would have a thing or two to say about that, too.

_Gellert, talk to me, bitte,_ pleads his aunt’s voice. His laughter rings out between the trees. He flings the chain away from his throat. Watches it land in the forest’s clearing. _No fight cannot be so bad that you would not be forgiven._

His stomach rolls. Lurches. Twists.

He claps a hand over his mouth and forces the rising bile back down with some effort. Thinks he’ll never stop spewing if he gives in to the urge to heave his insides out through his throat. His mouth burns. His eyes are stinging traitors, blurry with unshed tears.

_There’s no forgiving this. I can never go back._

The certainty of it hurts more than all the rest combined. There are stories of Seer’s curses out there, of course, and perhaps hindsight means he should have paid more attention to all of those. There was one Seer who would be believed by no one, was there not? Another Seer who was destined to only witness death’s hand and never the living, too, if his memory does not fail him now.

Dimly, he wonders which future Seer’s caution will be attached to _his_ name someday.

_Don’t fall in love,_ he thinks darkly. His stomach contracts and sends him into hisses of pain. _Whatever you do, do not bind yourself to the only equal you will ever know._

He steps closer to the chain within the clearing, hating himself all the while.

“The blood pact cannot be destroyed,” he recites, voice calm even as unseen knives stab at what remains of him. Invisible blades twist into his belly and tear his feelings asunder. “It binds the magic of one to the other, and of the other to the one. It is a dual heartbeat for those sworn to be companions in this life and all other lives to come.” He rubs his cheek angrily as a stray tear escapes him. “Shield and wand they shall be; side by side they shall reign.”

His voice breaks. _Reign. Reign. Reign._

“I’m the king of nothing, going nowhere!” He shouts it into the quiet, looming forest. The dark trees seem to mock him more than the sun ever will. Laughs out his scorn in the next breath. “I left my kingdom across the fucking sea.”

_Albus, eyes twinkling brightly, grinning from ear to ear, leaning over him to ask if he is doing okay. And okay would be a relative term, really, considering the fact that he’s just been flung off his feet and blasted through the air because of Al’s magic. Al’s wonderful, haphazard, experimental magic. He laughs out that he is fine and wishes he could press his lips to Albus’ in that very moment. He doesn’t do anything._

“I left him,” he says again, voice as small as that of a child.

_Albus burns the way phoenixes do. He is certain of this, if of nothing else in his life. Albus’ fingers leave burning marks on his skin. Albus’ breath is hot in his mouth, hot against his ear, hotter still tracing his markings down his spine. His knees give way with Albus there to catch him, arm locked so tight around his waist that he knows it to be his only anchor, and he is weightless against the coming tide. His name is a twisted prayer in Albus’ throat. His longing buries itself within the fire and cries out in surrender. He knows himself only when he is with him._

“Who am I? Who am I?”

Seers have gone mad with this, he knows. His nails dig into the palms of his hand.

_Your name is Gellert Galahad Grindelwald. You have hated the name since you were old enough to mangle its pronunciation. Your father thought you too strange to be his heir. Your mother, accused of striking a deal with the Fair Folk to have you, wasted away in the highest tower of Nurmengard Castle. You were expelled from Durmstrang at age sixteen._

“This I know, this I know,” he murmurs, tapping his brow and his cheeks and his lips until he is certain he is within his own skin. “This I know of myself.”

He is on his hands and knees in the middle of a forest he knows better than he knows most cities. He is a day’s walk away from what used to be home. _Blood in_ _the_ _halls, blood on the floor, here I will reign forevermore,_ his mind chants, visions melting together in his brain faster and faster and faster until all the world is red and the ringing in his ears sounds like screams.

His head feels like it’s splitting and fracturing into a million different pieces. His eyes blur before bursting into iridescent vision. Starbursts are behind his eyes as he closes them. He sinks down onto the forest floor. Huddles in on himself as the world turns beneath him and spins out of his control. His stomach lurches.

“P-please,” he tells the wind, the sky, the silent trees. His breath catches in his throat. “I c-can’t.. I.. c-can’t.. I can’t..” He coughs it out, chest constricting, hands shaking. Rattles out a short breath, attempts to inhale the thinner air. There isn’t enough breath in his lungs. “C-can’t..”

He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. It was a fool’s hope his father had, to bind his eyes with cloth and pray it was enough to keep the visions at bay. He doesn’t need eyes with which to see the mess he has made and the chaos he will continue to instigate. He doesn’t need his eyes at all. He would scratch them out of their sockets if he could, leave red marks across his cheeks like the angry slashes of a whip that still mar his back, gauge his dark and light eyes out of his damn skull for betraying his visions to the world.

His chest is still impossibly tight. He wheezes out a breath, then another, and inhales the thin wisps of air his lungs will allow. His hands dig into the earth and merge with the soil. _In breath, out breath, steady,_ he rehearses, fingers clenching and loosening rhythmically with the commands. _In breath, out breath, steady._

“I h-hate you.” It is barely a whisper when the words first escape him. He lies there with it, savoring the bitterness it leaves in his mouth. The burning in his chest spreads to his bones and settles in his marrow. He feels it raging beneath his skin as he utters the words a second time. “I hate you.” His voice gains in strength. He spews the taste of it out into the clearing before him. Purges his lungs of the raw ache that has threatened to consume him since he landed on Aunt Hilda’s doorstep a few hours earlier. “I hate you!”

He doesn’t know whether he’s addressing Albus or himself.

_Changeling, changeling,_ the wind whispers back at his hatred. The wind carries his father in its echo. _Changeling, worth only the skin on its back, worth the blood in its veins but no more, worth nothing but the worth given to it by the Grindelwald name._

His father always rather seemed like an old lion, long-haired with a lingering fierceness carrying forth in his voice. It’s the voice he remembers most, the voice that could thunder through an entire hall or leave doubt in his ear, the voice that cut like a knife and yanked at his spine until it would bend and snap upon command. The scent comes soon after, sickly and cloying, like rotten meat that moves underneath his fingertips, like the maggots that would coat the remains of the hunt.

“I hate you,” he spits out anew, rolling over until his face tilts skyward. The blood in his mouth tastes all the sweeter for it. “I will come for you,” he laughs, then, and the crazed sensation that shoots through his body leaves scorch marks on the dirt beneath him. The vision curls up at the edges of his vision, not five years away but sooner by far, and he laughs even more. “You first and most of all.”

_You’re weak, boy. As weak as your mother._

His magic hisses, spits, twists into knots at the memory. He had denied it even back then, answering that his mother’s spine had never once been broken by the likes of his father. She had been regal in a way his father needed to work to be. Her magic was like chain mail on her skin, so strong that even death did not allow it to fade entirely. Yet, for all her power, his father’s magic still thundered into his veins and liquefied them with pure agony.

_I will show you strength, Changeling._

“You showed me nothing,” he spits at the wind. His voice meets the echo in a howl that is stronger than any poison his father ever had him brew. “I am hers, like you always said. Hers and never yours.”

_And his, too. Always._

“Fuck you, Albus,” he groans aloud. He turns his head and levels a glare at the pact. It glints back at him, wholly unmoved by the way his magic hisses at its existence. “Fuck you for all of it.”

_Al’s voice is nervous when he reads aloud from the old tome that had been stashed rather crudely between a book about mermaids and a half-finished treatise on Salazar Slytherin. The book is a melting pot of archaic Latin and medieval English, but that has never stopped them before. Albus is speaking about a ritual that paints itself before his eyes, that becomes clear to his Sight long before he knows how to cast it._

_It’s beautiful, the way this magic always is, and it’s dangerous because of it._

_He is smiling long before Al finishes. His lips are on Al’s before the other wizard has time to exhale. He savors the surprise that parts Al’s lips enough for his tongue to slip through. The book tumbles out of Al’s grasp as he straddles the wizard’s lap and begs for Al’s agreement to the plan that sent his magic haywire only a night ago._

_Albus refuses him nothing._

_Masters of Death, his blood hums contently. The Stone in your hands. The Cloak around my shoulders. Our hands intertwined around the Wand that knows two owners through the bond that we will create with our blood._

“Incendio,” he hisses spitefully, willing the memory of Al’s lips to fade.

Fire shoots away from his fingertips toward the pact. His lip curls as he watches the fire dance across the clearing. Seconds later, he is left frowning as the fire dissipates. Smoke curls around the pact only a moment. It dissipates as quickly as the spell-fire itself does. The air itself seems to constrict and flare out at him in turn. New flames strike the ground. They are inches away from his nose.

“Fuck! Fuck!” He shoots upright in alarm. Swats at the fire with all the power he can safely put behind an _aguamenti_. “What in the world..?”

He eyes the pact the way he would a wild animal. It lies there as if he hadn’t intended for it to burn, as if no desire for destruction will ever mar its surface. His blood thunders in his ears as he observes it. Thinks this might well and truly be the first time magic doesn’t do what he wants it to. His hand flexes at the idea.

He rises to his feet and casts fire again.

Blue flames spring up in the air all around him. A weak smile curves at his lips as the flames encircle his wrists before they scatter out onto the wind. The forest seems to darken before his eyes as the flames turn whiter. Shadows cling to bark and leaf before they seep into the spaces between the trees. The earth almost seems to move back from the flames’ path. His hands tremble. His lip does, too.

The pact _shivers_ as the flames draw near. They melt into a circle around it. Bounce off walls he cannot see, die out as quickly as they sprung forth from him, spark into embers and finally die in the wind. Tendrils of fire may lick the ground, scorch the earth, sweep over the floor, but the pact lies there as if nothing is the matter.

_This love of ours might kill me._

It’s a hysterical thought he edges on, with bile stuck in his throat and all his memory returning to the dead sister. Her blonde hair strewn out over the floor, blood seeping from nose and mouth and ears, eyes sightless with the dark still clinging to her irises. Shadows that would not leave her, not even at the touch of her brothers.

He can still taste Al’s heartbreak.

_This love of ours has killed me already._

Hatred moves into his belly with one fell swoop that knocks the breath from his lungs. Laughter follows, after, derisive and hollow and painful. The flames that sprung forth from him are growing wilder with each sharp intake of breath, with each thought that leads him back to Godric’s Hollow, and he no longer cares about controlling any of it.

_Let me burn._

He opens his arms to the flames. Takes a step forward. Then another. Flames lick his heels. Catch on the ends of his too-long, too-untamed hair. They caress his fingertips long before they meet the rest of his skin in their dance. He burns, wholly aflame, like a growing light in the gathering dark. He bursts forth from the middle of the forest. Expands into the trees, beyond the gathering clouds, and collapses wholly into the wind.

The light goes out.

He blinks at the sudden disappearance of heat on his skin. Rubs his eyes as if that will bring back the haze of smoke and clear the sensation of his skin being entirely too small for him. Flexes his fingers once. Twice.

The fire doesn’t come.

Something else _does_.

There never used to be water in this part of the forest. There was never a time he stood ankle-deep in a pool of it, not here, not within all the years of his life. Rain would never touch it, as if the clouds somehow feared the soil. He doesn’t know how the land survived it for this long. Doesn’t know how _he_ did, foreign and strange and fey as he has been named, but survived he has.

It’s a small comfort.

“You’ve got to be fucking _joking_ ,” he snarls, more to himself than anything else. He flexes his fingers again. Wills the flames to come again, but his magic never flashes to light. His eyes fix on the pact once more. The bleeding, weeping, streaming pact. The pact that slowly but surely fills the dying forest with more water than it has seen since his father cast a curse upon it. “Come on now, come on.”

He doesn’t know if he prays for the fire or for the flood.

The latter gets to him first.

Water bursts forth from the pact as if the dam that contained it has finally given up on exercising control over it. He laughs as it strikes the earth and extinguishes the last of his embers. Keeps laughing even when it comes for him and fills his mouth with salt. It streams down his face in rivulets and tears. It streams down his shoulders, covers his arms, hugs his waist. His clothes stick to his back and carry a new weight altogether.

“I c-can’t,” he finally shudders, water weighing him down, salt filling his mouth, “I can’t. I don’t w-want..” He coughs. Snaps his fingers as if that will bring the flames back to him. “Give in to me, give in, come now,” he pleads, water slowly chilling his skin to the bone, “come back to me.”

He curses himself in the next seconds as the water knocks him clean off his feet and sends him flying. It probably isn’t a smart idea to try and coax the pact into anything, just like he could talk himself hoarse and Al would still stare him down with those fathomless blue eyes and say no. He splutters as the water overtakes him.

He’s on the forest floor and drowning.

The water is a kiss upon his lips. It forces itself onto his tongue and swirls around it in a lover’s caress. Though he swallows it until his throat burns, salt still leaks from the corners of his mouth and drips down into his hair. His eyes meet the shades of blue that linger in the sky above his head. He knows them all. He has them memorized through the way those eyes still burn in his mind.

“Albus,” he gasps, in the small space between water and oxygen, “A-Albus.” The tears stream down his face and mingle with the water. “I c-can’t..”

He is sobbing now, openly, great gasps and bursts of it grappling for oxygen, tears filling his eyes until the sky itself starts to blur. His stomach tightens and cramps around the sensation of loss. Low, keening sounds strangle out of his throat. His fingers claw at the dirt, at the moss, at the leaves. They wind around the chain of the pact unthinkingly. He huddles in on himself on the floor and draws the pact close.

He lies on the ground with Albus’ beating heart clutched so tightly in his hand that it is sure to leave its mark on his skin.

“I’m s-sorry,” he coughs out at last. His sobs drown him more than the pact’s deluge does. “I-I wanted you s-safe. Didn’t t-think.”

_Didn’t think you would refuse me. Didn’t think you’d raise your wand against me. Didn’t think our bond would react the way it did. Didn’t think she’d wind up dead._

The pact in his hand grows slick with blood. His skin has broken on its ornate curls that are almost carved into the palm of his hand. He blinks the water into snow and back to water again. He doesn’t know which way is up or down or inside out.

He no longer cares.

Heat flares in his hand. Heat carves his heart out of his chest.

He is screaming on the floor, crying into the forest that embraced him more than his father ever did, wailing a challenge to the darkening skies even as his heart threatens to give in altogether. Pain flares in his chest, upon his skin, in his very bloodstream. He is liquid fire, sweet agony, the thrill and hum of the chase that leaves iron in his mouth and darkness in the pit of his belly. He is too small for his skin and too big for his soul to live in.

Heat flares to life before him. Wings streak past his face. Stray feathers come to rest within his hair. A sharp beak flashes inches away from his eyes. Weight settles upon his chest almost abruptly. Talons scrape fabric away from his skin. Gold and red obscure his vision.

_There’s a legend,_ says Albus’ voice, somewhere deep in his head, _that a phoenix will come to a Dumbledore in great need._

He blinks.

The phoenix blinks back.

“Get off me,” he says.

The bird warbles something that almost sounds like a question. He stares up at it with a vague sense of alarm. Its clever, dark eyes peer down at him rather curiously.

“Get the _fuck_ off me,” he snarls again. Attempts to sit upright, though the weight of the bird is not an easy companion in that particular endeavor. “Dumb bird.”

It actually finds the audacity within itself to _croon_ at him.

He sinks back down on the floor with a sigh. Resigns himself to lying here in the dirt with the damn bird still perched on his chest. He rakes back his wet strands of hair. Wipes his face best he can, though he thinks he only succeeds at making his skin even clammier.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he tells the bird. Scoffs out a strangled laugh. “I’m not a Dumbledore.”

The phoenix thrills a low note of agreement at that.

“It means you can go away.” He sighs as the bird eyes him rather doubtfully. “Go. Bother Albus.” His voice cracks as he speaks the name. “Please.”

He raises an eyebrow as the bird’s head lowers until it rests just beneath his chin. It thrills a low, mournful note that reverberates through his body and lodges at the base of his spine. He hisses at the point of contact, heat battling with the icy glare of his heartache, and almost swats the phoenix away.

Instead, his hand raises until it rests upon the phoenix’s feathers. The chain of the pact is still wound tightly around his wrist. The bird is warm to the touch, as though the fire it is born from is lodged inside its body, and golden magic curls around his fingers as he strokes the bird’s body. His grasp on the pact loosens as the magic threads across the skin of his hand.

Warmth seeps into his body that has steadily been growing colder. His vision blurs with tears.

“Did I mean anything at all?” he finally asks, desperate to know and yet not know. “Was I.. Was I loved?”

The phoenix hums a low note against his throat. _Beloved, beloved,_ thrills the soft song that follows the note. If he strains his ears, he is almost certain he will hear Albus’ voice within.

Something sharp lodges in his chest. Albus’ voice is a whisper amid the phoenix’s song.

_Beloved._

He sits up so abruptly that the bird squawks indignantly at the motion and winds up taking flight. He scrambles to his feet after it. Throws the chain of the pact around his neck, but pays the heartbeat within no heed. His blackthorn wand flies into his hand mere seconds later.

“If I meant anything to him at all,” he huffs at the phoenix, steel settling into his voice at long last, “then I will not be avoided. I will be made inevitable.”

A gesture of his wand makes Aunt Hilda’s tea kettle small enough to fit into his bag. The bag floats over to rest at his feet. Another swish of his wand ripples through his clothing until all of Albus’ enchantments fall away from the fabric. New warmth suffuses him, made stronger still by the phoenix that flies over to meet his shoulder. Its talons barely scratch his surface. Albus has marked him far deeper than this.

“What I am about to do leaves no space for a phoenix,” he warns the bird. His voice turns silver upon the turn of phrase, as though magic itself seeks to coat his tongue with honey. Intent, low and dark and deep, thrums within its syllables. “I will coax your master from his hiding place. I will challenge him, defy him, and refuse to yield to him.” He does not know if he is promising it or swearing to it. Doesn’t think it matters when the phoenix’s agreement thrills warmly through his body. “When the time comes, I know you will appear by his side. I will be different when you do. You have my word, friend, that to you will come no harm.”

He does not make the same promises about Albus. Knows he will seek to hurt, break, and spite his lover in any which way he can learn how. Knows he will try to move around the pact, in time, as Albus will likely devise ways to extract himself from its ties.

“All roads will lead here,” he says. His eyes are focused on nothing. His voice lilts into the song of prophecy. The phoenix upon his shoulder croons low warnings in his ear. “We will be here again. The years will have been kind to neither one of us.” He doesn’t think time is kind to wizards who seek to rule over life and death. Doesn’t think it matters, not really, not when he can only ever have one but never the other. He Sees beyond all the worlds, but comes back to this hour with only one certainty in his heart. “I think, my feathered friend, that I might yield. In the end.”

This will always end with him on his knees for Albus.

He hates that it will.

“I will not break so easily.”

The phoenix thrills a high note of derision. He scoffs at the sound, so much like Albus that it almost hurts to hear it.

“But I will yield,” he says, desperately, voice edging into phoenix song. His hands claw at the air before him. He clenches them into fists. “Here, at the end of all things.”

Snow lingers in his hair. His hair turns white and gold and white again, now, aged but still gleaming golden when the light dignifies itself to strike it. Exhaustion has settled into his bones far more fiercely than he is able to truly feel it today. Then, now, then, his magic will slip away and seep through his fingers back toward the inevitable. His wand will bow to his lover long before his knees will strike the forest’s soil.

He knows this as surely as the cold wind sweeps through his clothes now. He knows this as intimately as Albus’ mouth trailing down his belly, feels it as closely as Albus’ hands on his waist, senses it as the shiver of magic that unfurls at the base of his spine. He can taste a kingdom turned to ashes in his mouth. Chains lock tightly around his throat, his wrists, his ankles, his waist. Iron for a Seer, superstitious as always. Deeper still, the silent knowing.

“There is no other way, is there?” he asks, but the phoenix’s talons are no longer a weight on his shoulders. There is no flash of light that can guide his path. He is alone once more, at the center of all things. “There is just this.”

All he sees is light. All he knows is the falling snow.


End file.
